


let me give mercy

by nightmaresinwintah



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel
Genre: AU, Civilian!Steve, Clint's apartment building, Death of minor characters, Drug Cartel, M/M, Memory Loss, Military!Bucky, Pierce is an asshole, Revenge, Steve is still Captain America, Violence, bring it back to brooklyn, bucky is very involved in the underground, bucky's just trying to find his goddamn way in the world, every one's vaguely normal like there's no superpowers but they're still badass, hydra are a minor yet major part in this, hydra are always assholes, like they aren't old fellas, mafia, modern day steve and bucky, there's a lot more violence in this than previously planned, torture scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-08-31 02:50:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8560696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmaresinwintah/pseuds/nightmaresinwintah
Summary: He's a mercenary. He's a mechanic. He's a monster. He's doing his best. He's Winter, he's soldat, he's Nikolayev, he's James Barnes, he's every other identity Clint's come up with and he's William Jonathan Beckham, apparently. He has no recollection of a life past seven years ago and he can do things he doesn't remember learning. He has scars he doesn't remember receiving. He doesn't know where he was born or where he came from or how he got here, but he's here and that's what he's going with.He has Clint and he has Natalia and he has himself and his survival skills. That's what he gotten by on for the past seven years and he has no desire to find out what he had before all that. But he gets these dreams that feel more like memories, and there's this guy who keeps turning up in them. He moves to Brooklyn and the memories start coming back. His friends turn out to know more than they'd been letting on, and there's a guy with forget-me-not coloured eyes insisting he knows him.   (Yet another AU no one asked for.)





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic you will find James Barnes not being born with the name James Barnes, Pierce and Rumlow part of a mob entirely unrelated to Hydra, Hydra still being assholes, and probably a bunch of Russian that doesn't translate quite right. Entirely unbeta'd by the way! All mistakes are my own :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooooo here we go! translations in end notes :)

_There’s a warm hand under his chin, tilting his face up and forcing him to look. To see. A thumb brushes over the track his tears have made - it comes away wet, presses to the corner of his mouth. He feels unsteady, shaky in his body. Unrooted. Unsure. Terrified. Blue eyes - the colour of forget-me-nots - stare down into his, searching for something they won’t find. Eyelids droop shut, cutting off his visual of the colour._

_Pink lips move. “I love you,” they say._

_He shudders, wants to curl in on himself, hold himself together, but he doesn’t. The hand stays steady on his face. His soul aches, cries for some alternate ending. His jaw quivers, warmth sliding down his face; the personification of the feeling of his chest shattering. “Is that enough?” he wonders out loud._

_The brilliance of those eyes shine down into his, which must be duller than the ocean after a storm. He wants to be closer, to touch and press himself down the line of the body his own knows every inch of. “It should be.”_

_“But it’s not,” he concludes. It’s not. It won’t be, it isn’t and it never was._

_Lips press together into a thin line, going from rosy to white. Eyelashes brush down over red-stained cheekbones. Dry skin. There are no tears here, apart from his own, still flowing steadily. “Keep yourself warm, Buck,” is breathed out like a cloud of pity, of all things._

_Every piece of him falls apart, breaking on the snow-covered concrete like glass. He sucks in a breath that stings like vodka and sinks down under a frothing ocean surface. The hand disappears and the ice crackles around him, stealing his air. Footsteps crunch across the road, disappearing. He should get up and run, beg for him to stay, but he’s broken. He can’t get up._

_He curls in on himself, finally, wondering if it’ll be like this forever. He doesn’t doubt it will be._

_He has nothing, now. There’s no possible way to fix this. He’s leaving tomorrow._

_Night settles over him like a blanket, turning his lips blue._

 

The sweat he wakes up to is a far cry from the wintery night his mind had been torturing him with. He’s drenched with it, chest still heaving and jaw aching from where he must have been screaming. At least the snow hadn’t been stained with blood this time. It’s like something dragged straight up from hell when the two main themes of his nightmares clash.

He sits up, dragging himself out of bed and stumbling over to the window. It’s still open, curtains dancing with the night chill. Gooseflesh prickles over his arm and bare chest, but he can’t find the energy to shiver. He shuts the window with more force than necessary, securing the latch and stepping away, pulling the curtain shut.

He takes a moment to further catch his breath before turning to face the bedroom of the night. It’s better than some of the ones he’s stayed in, but the wallpaper is peeling from the corners and the sheets itch something crazy. He drags his hand down his face, stepping over the pile of clothes he’d thrown to the floor before collapsing into bed last night.

The light is still on in the bathroom and the open bottle of spirits is still on the basin where he’d left it. He picks up the thing and screws the lid on, putting it on the floor where it’s safe from being knocked off. He washes his face quickly, patting around his neck with the flannel and getting rid of the stickiness of drying sweat. He glares at the space where the mirror is - covered with the only towel offered with the room.

He doesn’t have the energy for a shower. Instead, he returns to the bedroom and grabs his phone from the charger port. At a quick glance of the time, he figures he has about twenty minutes to get it together. In the meantime, he starts packing. He’s only been here thirty-six hours, but that’s already longer than usual.

He has his backpack and his rifle bag. Clothes are shoved into the backpack along with the handgun - it’s not needed on this mission. He’s not wearing anything so it’s no trouble pulling on a pair of underpants and then his heavy tac gear that comes from his rifle bag. He secures several knives to his person, then takes one last sweep of the room, making sure he hasn’t missed anything.

He’s doing up his boots - custom with fucking velcro, _fuck_ laces - and then he’s doing up his glove with his teeth and launching himself out of the window and into the night. He lands in a silent crouch, the quiet sound of snow and ice under boots the only indication of his appearance on the ground. He stalks off, keeping to the shadows and doing well to make sure he remains unseen.

He double-checks the address texted to him before heading in that direction. It’s close, only a few blocks, and has a beautiful open window. This mission comes with a doubled pay and the request to leave a message. He’s not usually one for dragging things out - he’s more the type of mercenary you pay to go in, get the job done, get out. This one’s a little different, but he’s feeling a little more malicious tonight.

He enters through the window, silent even with one arm. The room he finds himself in is clearly an office, but that’s of no interest to him. He leaves the room and heads down the hallway, taking in every little detail. The apartment is two-bedroom, one bathroom, one lounge and an adjoined kitchen. It’s small - and well-stocked. A good safehouse.

He’s not sure how his employer found out the address, because he’s done research on the man he’s to kill, and the guy isn’t stupid. He knows how to cover his tracks. It’s not his business, though. The only thing he needs to know is that the money has gone into his bank account.

The door to the second room is open just a crack, no light spilling through. Soft snores come through, masking the sound of the door opening fully. There is only one person in this whole apartment, making his job even easier. He pauses to take stock of the room - barred windows, gun on the nightstand.

He holds in the urge to snort before taking the gun and tucking it into a holster. He flicks the lamp on the bedside table on and sits down on the edge of the bed, taking the man sleeping there by the throat. Dark eyes fly open, face draining of colour as he flails, getting tangled up in the sheets.

As soon as the man’s eyes see him, he stops. _“Winter,”_ he croaks.

Winter doesn’t smile. He stares down at the man with a blank face, squeezing a little tighter. The man makes a desperate choking sound, eyes going wide. He tries to shake his head, tries to speak again. Winter finds it vaguely amusing that this man’s last word is going to be his name. He purses his lips, squeezes harder. He has a message to deliver before he can kill this man and disappear until the next job crops up.

 _“_ _Pavlenko govorit chto on budet zabotit'sya dlya Staroverova,”_ he murmurs, making sure to lean in close so the man will understand.

There’s fear, pure and undiluted on the man’s purple face when Winter pulls back and looks down at him. He doesn’t look away as the man fish-mouths, trying to speak, going bug-eyed. When he passes out, Winter drives a knife into his temple and leaves through the same window.

His bags are waiting for him in his room back at the motel and he showers quickly, not knowing when he’ll get the chance for another one. He changes out of his tac gear and replaces it with street clothes before getting the hell out of there. He’d payed forward, no one will miss him. No one will chase him up.

He sends a quick text to Pavlenko, a simple ‘done’ in Russian before deleting his number and binning the burner phone. The world is beginning to wake up - he stops off to stash his rifle bag on a roof he’d found not too long ago - recent enough that he doesn’t have to switch up the place for a few more weeks. With just the clothes on his back and the things in his backpack, he goes hunting for some breakfast.

There’s a cafe just opening, so he pulls on his cap and pats his pockets for the cash he’d withdrawn yesterday. He orders a plain coffee - black - and a toasted bagel to shut his stomach up before settling into a booth. He checks the front pocket of his backpack for a safety pin and allows a moment of triumph before setting about the task of pinning his empty sleeve back.

The waiter that comes over with his coffee and bagel seems to be in a hurry, even though there’s no one else here yet. Winter figures he’s in need of a shave at some point. He scrubs his hand over his prickly jaw before grunting and forgetting about it. He sips at the coffee and lets his mind drift, while he keeps an eye on the entrances of the cafe and the staff.

He won’t be able to stay here long, but he’s not sure where he’s going to go next. There’s no one to see, no place to be. As he chews on his bagel he wonders when the last time he created a new identity was. It seems like something to do - he could stay put in a new place a little longer, perhaps. Or at least until he got a new job or got too restless.

For now, though, he’s going to finish his breakfast before the morning rush comes in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pavlenko govorit chto on budet zabotit'sya dlya Staroverova = Pavlenko says he will take care of Staroverova


	2. Clint damn Barton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint's awesome and I love him.

_ He all but drags himself to consciousness. The air around him is thick with the headiness of smoke, making him cough and splutter. He’s on his side, and his whole body is screaming with pain. There are embers burning through the dust, ash raining down from the sky. The Hummer is turned on its side, belly blown to bits, and he’s sure he can see what’s left of one of his men dangling from the passenger seat.  _

_ He squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth and steeling himself to move. He tries his legs first - there is the telltale sting of open wounds, but nothing bone-deep. He feels relief flood through him, just for a moment. He moves his hips next, then works his way up to his shoulders. He freezes. Bile rises is his throat and his vision swims.  _

_ Pain hits him like the floodgates opening to a dam. He doesn’t scream, but he comes close. He thinks he’s delirious. He twists his head around and looks, even though he doesn’t want to. One of his eyes is swollen shut, but he can see very, very clearly out of the other.  _

_ His left arm is gone. He’s bleeding profusely and somewhere amidst the panic he knows he should try stop it. Apply pressure. Wrap it up. Instead of doing any of that, he screams. In hindsight, he wishes more than he’s ever wished for anything that he’d stayed quiet and let himself bleed to death. Instead, he screams and screams and screams.  _

_ Boots crunch in the sand and despite being in the desert, he feels cold.  _

_ Hands grab at him, drag him through the dirt and agony tears through him. Through the haze of terror and searing pain he thinks he sees his arm lying in the dust.  _

 

He’s not screaming when he wakes up, but he sure as hell is panicking. He shoots into a standing position, scrabbling for a knife or a gun or  _ anything,  _ but as soon as his hands close around a handle he’s calming down. He’s breathing too hard and too fast and his head is spinning, but all he can do is close his eyes and sink back down to the ground. 

He presses his back against the alley wall, drops the knife and buries his face in his hand. There’s nothing to do about the nightmares - flashbacks? - that come every night. Each and every one of them are a play-by-play of some event in a past he doesn’t remember, something that led to him being where he is now. 

He shakes his head and huffs out a breath, which forms a cloud in front of his face. The night is freezing and he’s not sure where the day went, but it’s time to move again. He stands, slinging his backpack across his shoulders and heading off down the alleyway, an address shining in his mind. 

The walk to the apartment building takes half an hour and by the time he gets there it’s pitch black out. He goes in through the front door, taking the stairs up to the top level. He wanders down the hall till he finds the apartment number he’s looking for and raps his knuckles against the door. He shifts his weight to one leg, waiting for the occupant to let him in. 

The door swings open only a moment later and the smell of coffee hits him like a train. The shorter, blond-haired man looks up at him with one eyebrow raised. He’s got a black eye and a bruised cheek decorated with butterfly stitches and his face lights up in a grin the moment he takes the sight of Winter in. There’s not too many people who have that reaction to seeing him. 

“Nikolayev,” Clint Barton greets, glancing around the hallway subtly before stepping aside to let him in. 

Winter snorts, brushing past him and setting his bag down. “God, I can’t remember the last time I used that name,” he says, heading for the couch. 

The coffee table is covered in files and forged documents, along with coffee mugs and what looks like the specs for a new quiver of specially made arrows. Clint hobbles after him, favouring his left leg. “It’s the last one I remember making for you, anyhow. What have you been up to? It’s been at least a year.”

“Mercenary work again, mostly,” Winter offers up, reaching down to undo his boots. 

Clint snorts. “Same group you got me into trouble with?”

“That was entirely your own fault, Barton. You didn’t  _ have  _ to buy the damn building.”

Clint just flops down on the couch beside Winter, kicking his feet up on the coffee table and huffing out a sigh. “What’re you looking for this time? Place to lay low? A new apartment just opened up a level down. Or is it some more papers?”

“Papers,” Winter sighs, taking a moment to look around the apartment. It hasn’t changed at all since last time - still in complete disarray.

Clint nods, finding some paper and a pen from the mess on the coffee table. “Got anything in mind?”

“I wanna come back to Brooklyn,” Winter decides, though he hadn’t actually thought about it till now. It feels like the place to be. The decision makes him uneasy. 

Even Clint looks a little suspicious, but he doesn’t say anything. “Alright, American then? What background are you going for? Got a name?” 

Winter shrugs. “Run wild. I’m gonna crash out in your spare room for tonight. How backed up are you with orders? How long’s this gonna take?”  

Clint’s jotting things down, hand flying across the paper. “For you, I can get this done in two days. Help yourself to the fridge, I went shopping yesterday,” he offers, before settling into the couch and grabbing a laptop from the floor. 

Winter just nods and gets up off the couch, knowing when to leave the man to his work. He and Clint has met seven years ago when Winter (known as  _ soldat  _ at the time) had stumbled his way into America with a blank slate of a mind. Clint had been working the same job he was now, had made up some papers and an identity for Winter without being asked, had handed them to him after a few days of Winter recovering on his couch. 

The rest is history. 

He cracks open a can of soup and chucks it in the microwave, eyes skimming over the mess of folders on Clint’s benchtop. If any branch of the law found reason to raid Clint’s home, they’d hit the jackpot. There’s stolen information, files and files of top secret stuff, folders and filing cabinets of fake identities and who knows what else. He’s the best of the best at what he does, but Winter’s not exactly sure what that is. 

As he’s spooning soup into his mouth half-heartedly, he heads over to the window and ducks through it to the fire escape. He looks over the city below and in front of him and takes a deep breath. The best thing about changing identities is forgetting that you ever had a real one. You forget the things that happened in your past, because you have a new one. You get to move into a new town, make new acquaintances and tell them what you want, because you’re making up your life as you go. 

Winter gets to forget that he can’t remember anything past seven years ago, anyway. 

He finishes his soup, climbs back inside and rinses the bowl in the sink. Clint’s tapping away on the laptop, oblivious to what’s happening around him. Winter makes sure the front doors locked and grabs his stuff, heading to the spare room. He strips his clothes and slides under the blankets, wondering what nightmares will come to him tonight. 

*

_ Consciousness comes to him in fragments, flitting away and then returning, hitting him like a brick. He forces his eyes open, winces as the lights - fluorescent, painfully bright - shine right in his eyes. He’s - where is he? He tries to look around, but the moment he does he realises he’s restrained - strapped down to a metal slab. He closes his eyes again, tries to breathe evenly.  _

_ He’s been here for a while.  _

_ Sometimes it takes him a few hours to remember everything, but this time it takes him a few moments. He clenches his remaining fist, glaring at nothing behind his eyelids. At least there’s no one in the room this time. He tests the restraints half-heartedly, knows there’s no point. He’s not sure how long he’s going to have to lay here before he either falls asleep again or someone comes in. He never does. _

_ He gets his answer approximately half an hour later when a door swings open and footsteps echo through the room. There’s more than one person and they’re talking in Russian, which is the only language he’s heard since he got here. God, how long has it even been? Long enough to know that no one’s coming for him.  _

_ They undo the straps, force him to stand. He doesn’t bother fighting - he gave up hope that he could ever stop them from doing something they wanted to do to him ages ago. They half walk him half drag him out of the room, down a hall and into another room. He keeps his eyes glued to the floor. They don’t like it when he tries to look around.  _

_ He’s chained by his ankles, the restraints connected to the concrete. He’s handed a gun and left alone. He stares at the weapon blankly and waits. The door opens again ninety-seven seconds later and the sound of a struggle follows. The same men as before are dragging in someone with a sack over their head. They must be gagged, because they don’t make a sound.  _

_ The person is handcuffed to a chair and told something is Russian, something that makes them stop struggling and start shaking. He - he’s forgotten his name? He’s not sure when that happened. He stays looking at the floor, waiting.  _

_ “Soldat?” is asked of him. _

_ Maybe that’s his name. That’s all they use to address him with. He knows what to do, in this situation. He looks up, raises the gun, aims and shoots. The person in the chair is dead instantly, and then he’s being unchained from the floor and taken to another room. He catches sight of the Chair, can’t help the flinch. The hand on his bicep tightens and he grits his teeth.  _

_ He’s sat down and restrained methodically. This happens every day, but he’s not used to it. He never will get used to it, he thinks. Sometimes he forgets this happens until he’s actually in the Chair. Something is barked in Russian, and the Chair flickers to life, whining and whirring.  _

_ Electricity crackles in his ears and metal clamps over his head. He screams. He always does. _

 

He’s tangled in the sheets and blankets when he wakes up, fighting against them and breathing hard. Sunlight streams in through the open curtains, undulating clouds making patterns on the carpet. He focuses on the movement, slows his breathing back down to normal. He’s drenched in sweat again, whole body shaking. 

He huffs out sigh of annoyance and gets up, shoving the blankets off of him. He heads straight for the shower, taking his backpack with him. He washes the dream away, shaking it from his mind. He only ever gets bits of his past when he dreams. He’s not even sure they’re real, despite how vivid they are. Sometimes he’ll dream of torture, of being cut and sliced and burned and he’ll wake up and run his fingers over scars that match the dream-wounds. 

After his shower he takes all his dirty clothes and heads downstairs, chucking them all in a washing machine before returning to Clint’s apartment. Clint’s bedroom door is closed, signalling that he’s finally getting some sleep, so Winter settles down on the couch and pulls out the two handguns from his backpack. 

He clears a spot on the coffee table and goes hunting for cleaning supplies. Clint has them in the same cupboard as his pots and pans and Winter rolls his eyes before returning to the couch. He buries himself in carrying out maintenance of his weapons, thoroughly cleaning the guns and after that, the knives as well. 

His stomach growling rouses him from the methodic polishing of a blade. He scowls for a moment before packing everything away and getting started on breakfast. Clint still hasn’t come out of his room, so Winter just figures he’d been up for a couple of days. Winter puts the coffee pot on and grabs out a frying pan while he puts away the weapon cleaning supplies. 

He cracks a few eggs into the pan once it’s warmed up, sipping at a mug of coffee. There’s not much else in Clint’s cupboards despite his claims of recently going shopping. He finds a loaf of bread and tries to hunt down a toaster, but there isn’t one, so he resolves by making french toast. Clint has a whole draw full of spices and herbs, even though Winter  _ knows  _ the guy doesn’t cook.

He’s just finishing up with the french toast when Clint’s door opens and the man comes stumbling out wearing nothing but boxers. He’s rubbing at his eyes and yawning and there’s pen on his face, but as soon as he sees the food he looks like he’s had three cups of coffee already. He high-tails it over to the kitchen, eyeing up the coffee pot, clearly deciding if he can steal some from the guy who kills people for a living. 

Winter snorts. “It’s your building, man, go for it,” he says, grabbing another plate and piling it up with the rest of the food. 

Clint grabs the pot and instead of grabbing a mug just taking a sip straight from the thing. Winter rolls his eyes, pushing the plate over to him. “Thanks, man,” Clint mumbles out from around half an egg. 

“How far along are you with the papers?” Winter asks, checking the draws for knives and forks. Clint clearly doesn’t bother with them. 

“I’m finished with the online half and I’ll be able to send away the stuff for physical copies in about two hours. Should be back by tomorrow. Also, your name is James Barnes and you’re a personal trainer who just moved back from DC. You’re turning twenty-eight in a month,” Clint rambles, taking bites of french toast in between breaths. 

Winter - James - raises an eyebrow, giving up on the knives and forks. “A personal trainer?” he asks. “A one-armed personal trainer?” 

Clint shrugs. “You’re built. I took it and ran.”

James rolls his eyes. “Where am I from?” 

“American - Brooklyn born and bred, my man. You can spit out some story about wanting to get back to your roots. Where did you find cinnamon in this place?” 

James gives him a stink-eye. “You have a draw of herbs and spices.” Clint just looks at him, so James figures he’s either forgotten or didn’t even know how they’d gotten there in the first place. James finishes up his breakfast and reaches for his coffee. “I’m going new-identity shopping today. Do you need anything?”

Clint shakes his head. “Nah, I’m just gonna hunker down and get some other orders through at the same time as yours. Don’t kill anyone who comes by, okay? I’m expecting a few people.”

“I’d have to be paid, first,” James shoots back, putting his dishes in the sink and heading back to his room for his wallet. 

If Clint says something back, James doesn’t hear it. When he leaves the apartment, Clint’s already put another pot of coffee on and is pouring over the mess of papers on the bench. Shaking his head, James pulls up his hood and heads down the stairs and out onto the street. He’s headed to a clothes department first and as he walks there he creates a past for James Barnes in his head. 

He was born in Brooklyn and he’s twenty-eight in a month, which makes his birthday fall on March tenth. The personal trainer thing was a good idea on Clint’s part - James just had to make up everything else. He had left Brooklyn to get out and see the world, headed to DC for a job up there. He’d found himself not enjoying it too much so, what? He’d moved back? And now he was unemployed and currently job hunting. 

He needs to find a flat, as well. 

James looks up at the clothes store he stops in front of, narrowing his eyes. He has no idea what kind of clothes James Barnes wears. He sighs and walks in, very conscious of the fact that he looks homeless right now. Whatever. 

“Can I help you, sir?” comes from his left. 

James looks over at the employee, frowning. “I’m just browsing, thanks,” he says, a Brooklyn accent sliding over his words. It had previously been laced with Russian, as his ‘Winter’ identity had been the ‘Russian guy you’d call if you needed someone to get their hands dirty for you’. 

“Alright, I’ll be over here if you need anything,” the employee says with a smile far too bright to be real. 

James just nods and wanders over to the men's clothes, eyes taking in the choices. The hell would James Barnes wear? He heads over to the jeans, first - that was always a safe choice. He picks out a few that would hug his legs but be comfortable around his waist, throwing in a cheaper pair he wouldn’t mind getting ruined. 

He finds a few tops as well, and a jacket for good measure. He figures sneakers would be something a personal trainer would own, so he gets a pair of those and then heads to the checkout. The employee ringing up his items doesn’t look at him once, and he gets out of there quickly. 

Next, he heads to an Apple store. Thanks to his last job his pocket is practically burning, so he splashes out on a phone. He wanders around the city, picking up things James Barnes needs, including a haircut. It’s nearing five when he’s finished, so he returns to Clint’s building, arm straining under the weight of the bags.

He dumps his shit on the ground the moment he gets inside and flops down on the couch a second later. Clint doesn’t look up, just carries on with whatever he’s doing. “Barton, do you have a razor somewhere?” James asks. 

Clint just points at the bathroom and James groans before getting up again and forcing himself to have a shave. James Barnes likes to be clean shaven, he decides.  

He has dinner - pizza with Clint - before heading to bed and crashing again for the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lemme know what you think so far! comments/kudos are always appreciated :)


	3. Natalia Romanova

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations in end notes

_ There’s a warm hand under his chin, tilting his face up and forcing him to look. To see. A thumb brushes over the track his tears have made - it comes away wet, presses to the corner of his mouth. He feels unsteady, shaky in his body. Unrooted. Unsure. Terrified. Blue eyes - the colour of forget-me-nots - stare down into his, searching for something they won’t find. Eyelids droop shut, cutting off his visual of the colour.  _

_ Pink lips move. “I love you,” they say. _

_ He shudders, wants to curl in on himself, hold himself together, but he doesn’t. The hand stays steady on his face. His soul aches, cries for some alternate ending. His jaw quivers, warmth sliding down his face; the personification of the feeling of his chest shattering. “Is that enough?” he wonders out loud.  _

_ The brilliance of those eyes shine down into his, which must be duller than the ocean after a storm. He wants to be closer, to touch and press himself down the line of the body his own knows every inch of. “It should be.” _

_ “But it’s not,” he concludes. It’s not. It won’t be, it isn’t and it never was.  _

_ Lips press together into a thin line, going from rosy to white. Eyelashes brush down over red-stained cheekbones. Dry skin. There are no tears here, apart from his own, still flowing steadily. “Keep yourself warm, Buck,” is breathed out like a cloud of pity, of all things.  _

_ Every piece of him falls apart, breaking on the snow-covered concrete like glass. He sucks in a breath that stings like vodka and sinks down under a frothing ocean surface. The hand disappears and the ice crackles around him, stealing his air. Footsteps crunch across the road, disappearing. He should get up and run, beg for him to stay, but he’s broken. He can’t get up. _

_ He curls in on himself, finally, wondering if it’ll be like this forever. He doesn’t doubt it will be.  _

_ He has nothing, now. There’s no possible way to fix this. He’s leaving tomorrow. _

_ Night settles over him like a blanket, turning his lips blue.  _   
  


 

This dream - nightmare? - happens the most often and makes the least sense. He wakes near screaming, sweating even though it’s freezing in his mind and with an aching body. All his other nightmares are full of blood, horror and torture, but this one is the worst. He doesn’t understand it. It’s nothing like the disjointed memories he doesn’t remember experiencing, it’s something more bone-deep and horrifying, like this is the worst thing that could have happened to him.

He gets up and takes a cold shower, attempting to wash the dream away.

The papers - passport, drivers license, birth certificate - arrive that day, just as Clint said they would. Clint drops the envelope on the bench just as James finishes making lunch, a big grin on his face. James opens the envelope, taking out the drivers license first. It’s the same picture from his previous identity, but since Winter was never convicted of any crimes, it’s safe to use. 

“James  _ Buchanan  _ Barnes?” James asks, raising an eyebrow at Clint, who just shrugs. James rolls his eyes, but offers him a smile. “Thanks, Barton. I transferred the money last night. I should be out of your hair again before tomorrow,” he says. 

Clint grabs one of the sandwiches on the bench. “I don’t mind having you around, James. It’s nice having a live-in cook.” He’s already darting away to avoid the jab James sends at him. 

“Fuck you, this is hardly cooking,” James grumbles, moving to put the envelope in his backpack. 

Clint settles down on the couch. The coffee table’s pile has reduced somewhat. “Have you called Nat yet?” he asks. 

“Nah, I was gonna do that after lunch,” James says.

“Don’t worry about it, she’s coming over for dinner.”

James sends him a look, narrowing his eyes. “Why is the Black Widow joining you for dinner, Barton?” 

“Joining  _ us,  _ man. I told her you were in town and she invited herself,” Clint throws up his hands in defense, still chewing on the sandwich.

James figures it’s actually pretty convenient. Natalia is much easier to talk to face-to-face and he hasn’t seen her for months. 

*

Clint’s napping on the couch and James is reading over an old file. He’s got no idea how Clint got his hands on FBI classified shit, or  _ why,  _ but the thing is interesting.  Dinner, despite Clint saying they could just get pizza again, is mushroom julienne. It’s nearly finished cooking, too, which means Natalia will turn up at any moment. 

Clint’s still snuffling away on the couch by the time James is dishing up, but they’re not alone in the apartment anymore. He can’t see her, but James can tell Natalia has come in through one of the windows. There’s no telltale whisper of footsteps, no soft sound of breathing, but Natalia is most likely moving through the rooms and towards him. 

He far too used to her that when she announces herself he doesn’t even jump.  _ “Griby solomkoy, Kotik?”  _ is purred into his ear. 

He smiles, finishing setting the table. She’s warm, most likely drove here. The wind is restless outside, shivering with bone-deep cold.  _ “Dlya tebya, pauk,”  _ he murmurs, smiling at the delighted laugh that comes from Natalia. 

“Oh, you’re wonderful,  _ kotik,”  _ she admits, brushing her fingertips down his arm. 

He just smiles down at her, fondness swelling in his chest. “Will you wake Clint up? The julienne is ready,” he asks. 

She breezes away from him, bare feet making not a sound. She drapes herself over Clint’s body on the couch and James looks away, still smiling. James and Natalia had first met at one of Clint’s New Year’s parties, had both been hovering at the edges of the crowd, eyes on the exits. Natalia had caught his eye, had looked at him with  _ something  _ in her eyes - something that alerted him how deadly she was. She’d been predatory, prowling the room as though she owned it. 

They had gotten talking and James had found out he knew Russian. And Italian, French, Hindi, Spanish, Arabic, Portuguese and Bengali. Later on he discovered that he knew far more than just those, but after the confusing back-and-forth, of Natalia backing him into a corner,  _ hunting  _ him, they found they got along like a house on fire. 

After that, they’d sat in the corner and just talked. There wasn’t much James - Murphy at the time - had been able to say; he’d only had about eight months of memory, but they managed. Natalia - then and now - seemed to have a glint in her eye, like she knew something he didn’t. But that was the thing about Natalia; if she didn’t want to talk, you’d never get her to. He figured if the day came where she would be willing to share, he’d be the first one to know. 

“Dude, you made mushroom julienne!” 

James looks up from his hand and raises an eyebrow at Clint. “I know,” he deadpans. “Dig in.”

Natalia laughs under her breath, settling down at the table like a queen taking her place on her throne. “So, are you still going by Winter, then?” she asks, picking up her fork. 

James shakes his head. “New papers. James Barnes, now,” he says.

“Clint pick that name?” 

James nods, taking a bite of his food. Clint hasn’t looked up from his food since he sat down in front of it. “I like it,” he shrugs. “I’m apartment hunting around here tomorrow.”

“Do you have a place yet? Or is that why I’m here?” Natalia’s lips curl into an amused smile, like she sees straight through him.

James gives her a look. “You invited yourself,” he reminds her. 

“Do you need a place or not?” she asks, brushing the comment away with a flick of fiery hair. 

James gives her his best angelic smile. “I would love a place, thank you so much,  _ pauk,”  _ he drawls, enjoying the way she glares at him. 

She nods, rolling her eyes afterwards, before turning her attention to her food. Clint perks up suddenly, as if he’s just heard the conversation. “Hey, how come you always know what name he’s most recently going by? I can never remember,” he says, frowning at Natalia. 

She frowns at him. “I’m attentive, Clint,” she says. 

“Yeah, but no one ever knows where you are, so how does he let you  _ know.” _

James watches them, amused. Natalia looks tired. “He doesn’t. I hear things.” 

Clint frowns at her and then at James, before returning to his dinner and most likely ignoring the fact that he’s gotten even more confused by asking. James huffs out a chuckle and Natalia glances at him, a fond smile on her face. Clint is most likely the only person she tolerates to any extent. She’d definitely given James more than one chewing-out before, but he’d never seen her give Clint anything but a look.

“So, James, I have an apartment in Red Hook if you’re interested? Don’t bother with rent, just pay the bills and you’re good to go. Oh, and there’s a mechanic's place hiring a few blocks away. You fixed up Clint’s truck pretty well, I’m sure you can figure out the rest,” Natalia speaks up again. 

James looks at her, smiling. “Thanks,  _ pauk,  _ I’ll check it out. Are you staying in the apartment right now?”

“No, there’s something I’ve got to deal with overseas after this, but I might pop around. Keep the place tidy for me,” she sends him a wink, before finishing up her bowl and sitting back, a satisfied smile on her face. 

James nods, standing up and taking their finished bowls and putting them in the sink. Clint’s already sniffing around for the leftovers, gravitating towards the fridge where he knows James puts them. “Are you heading straight to the airport?” James asks Natalia. 

She shakes her head. “I’ll drop you at the apartment, first,” she says, standing up and walking over to Clint. She throws an arm over his shoulders and he looks up from the fridge, surprised. James snickers at the look on his face, but leaves them to say their goodbyes and heads to his room. 

He double-checks he hasn’t left anything, then pops his head back out. “I’ve got something to pick up, I’ll be back in twenty,” he announces.

Natalia gives him a thumbs-up, but is otherwise occupied by Clint. James rolls his eyes and ducks back out, heading for the fire escape. There’s a rifle bag he needs to pick up. 

*

The apartment in Red Hook is nicer than he expected, fully furnished and equipped with Natalia-standard security. He drops his bags just inside the door, resolving to deal with them tomorrow, and turns to Natalia. She’s hovering in the door, clearly needing to get going. James smiles, stepping forwards. 

She wraps her arms around him, squeezing him into a gentle hug. “Good luck with the mechanic’s,” she says. “I’ll see you around.”

And then she’s gone, drifting back out of the building like a ghost. James takes a deep breath and locks the door behind her. Tonight, he figure he’ll just crash. He can sort out the rest of James Barnes’ life tomorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Griby solomkoy, Kotik?_ \- mushroom julienne, darling?  
>  _Dlya tebya, pauk._ \- for you, spider.  
>  _Kotik._ \- darling  
>  _Pauk._ \- spider
> 
> :)))))))


	4. Solnishka...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations in end notes

_ “Solnishka, get up.” _

_ There’s a buzzing in his ears, insistent and irritating. Somewhere in some deep, forgotten memory he knows that if he doesn’t do as the voice says, the buzzing will turn to screaming. It’s already climbing in pitch. He forces his eyes open, forces himself to look up at his opponent. The Spider stands there, deadly and poised as ever, ready to strike the moment he does as she says.  _

_ He meets her gaze, avoids diving into the emotion there. Instead, he coils up and twists quicker than her eyes can follow, taking her legs out from under her. She goes down, body already moving to catch herself, but he’s on her before she even hits the concrete. He can practically feel the satisfaction oozing from his handlers as they watch on.  _

_ He has the Spider pinned, elbow at her throat, and all she does is glare up at him. She bares her teeth, still wild and unbearably young, but all he can do is stare blankly. When she starts turning blue, the order to release her is barked from the sidelines. He’s on his feet in an instant, still spinning from the hit in the temples he’d taken from the Spider.  _

_ The Spider’s handlers gesture for her to go to them, and she does without hesitation. She will be reprimanded for her defeat, but not harshly. She still took him down, if only for a moment. The Soldier, on the other hand, faces far worse punishment. He left her slip past his defenses, let her take him to the ground.  _

_ He faces his handlers, not daring to even twitch. They share looks, sneers, and the Soldier wants to run. He always wants to run. But running isn’t allowed. Instead, he waits for his punishment.  _

 

The morning is cold. There’s a thin layer of snow on the windows, piling on the window sills. James is on the floor and him falling off is probably what woke him. The dream is already fading from his mind and he doesn’t bother trying to remember it. It never does any good. Instead, he gets up off the ground and takes a look around the apartment. 

It’s two bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen and living room taking up the majority of the space. It’s cozy, not quite something he figured Natalia would look into buying. Either way, he’s grateful she had. He tries out the shower before making breakfast, finding a pleasant surprise of the cupboards being stocked. 

He dressed in his new black jeans, a white shirt and throws on a dark jacket before gathering his new wallet full of his new identity and heads off down the the mechanics, locking the door behind him. Clint had taken the liberty of crafting a CV for him, something James needed to thank him for at some point. 

It’s early still, but the shop is open. The sign on the front reads, simply,  _ ‘Stark’s Mechanic’s’.  _ James peers in through the window, seeing no one, but goes in anyway. A bell connected to the door signals his entry, but no one appears. There’s a ‘hiring’ sign on the noticeboard, asking for someone good with engines. James doesn’t remember how or why, but he knows his way inside and out of vehicles. 

He goes up to the reception, finds various cold, half-drunk cups of coffee. He wonders briefly if whoever owns this place knows Clint. As he’s about to head out and come back later, there’s a loud bang from the workshop.  _ “Fuck!”  _ follows the noise, and James finds himself smiling. 

He opens the door separating the front of the shop from the garage and finds the place full of gutted vehicles. He surveys the room, looking for the source of the noise and his eyes land on a dark-haired man hopping around holding his foot, mumbling ‘fuck fuck fuck fuck’ under his breath repeatedly. 

“You alright there?” James asks, announcing his presence.

The man freezes up for a moment, tilting to the side before catching himself on a workbench. He spins around, eyes wide and taking James in. “Shit - I didn’t even hear you come in, what can I -” he cuts off as another piece of the motor he’d apparently been working on falls to the floor. “Ignore that, that doesn’t usually happen, seriously, I just picked up the wrong tool and it was too big and then the bolt went on wrong and I was taking it off and it wanted to take my goddamn  _ eye  _ out, but what can I do for you?” 

James blinks at the man, head spinning suddenly. That was a lot of words. “Uh, you’re hiring?” He says it like a question, simultaneously wondering when the last time this guy got some sleep was.

“Oh, oh yeah - look, if you can fix up this motor by four o’clock today, you’re hired,” is his answer.

James frowns, already walking forwards. “What’s it come from? What’s it need done to it?” he asks. 

“A ‘72 Ford Fairmont, fuckin’ beauty of a thing, needs tuning and also a couple of the cylinders are playing up - or at least that’s what the guy said - so just, fix it up as best you can and if it’s not great I’ll just say I need more time on it or something,” and there he goes rambling again. 

James takes his jacket off, undoing the pin on the left shoulder and settles down on the seat in front of the engine. He takes a moment to just look over it before he figures out what he needs to do. “Give me four hours,” he says, and buries himself in the work. 

He can hear the guy - who he guesses owns the place or something - moving around him, working on other things, but he’s mostly just engrossed in the engine. It’s gorgeous - clearly the original motor, but it’s been done up, some of the parts custom made to be replaced brand new. He’s guessing the thing runs clean as a whistle most the time, but whoever had sent it in was right - the second cylinder wasn’t working smoothly. By James’ guess, it didn’t need replacing, just fixing up. 

It takes the full four hours. When he’s finished, he sits back and grabs the rag he’d been using, attempting to wipe oil and grease off his hand. “Hey, Tony,” he calls. During the four hours the guy had barely stopped talking, eventually introducing himself and just generally chatting away. 

“You finished?” Tony asks, shouting from the front of the shop. He comes in a moment later, a grin on his face. “Let's have a look,” he says, rubbing his hands together and grabbing a chair, sliding over next to James. He whistles, long and low. James feels pride well up in his chest. “Alright, you are so hired. I pay bi-monthly and I can have the contract delivered to you by tomorrow. When can you start? We can discuss your pay whenever you’re free.”

James stretches out his legs, wincing at the cramping in one of them. “I’m free now, and I can start as soon as the contract’s signed,” he says. 

Tony grins. “Fantastic. Hey, I never did catch your name.”

“James Barnes,” James tells him, offering his hand. Tony takes it, and his grip is firm, steady. They shake and James stands up, grabbing his jersey. “What time do you want me in the morning?” he asks. 

“Nine am sharp,” Tony says, still looking over the engine. 

James just nods, gravitating towards the front door. “I’ll see you then, boss,” he calls, closing the door behind him. 

Tony doesn’t reply, but the sound of him working starts up again. James heads out of the shop with a satisfied smile on his face. 

*

The walk back to the apartment is freezing, the cold sinking through his clothes and into his bones. He hunches his shoulders against it, frowning at nothing. He looks at everything as he walks, getting an idea of his surroundings. When he gets to the street his new place is at, he pauses, then just...keeps walking. He has no need to go home just yet. 

He takes a left and just keeps going. He’s looking at all the shops and houses, keeping an eye on the people who walk and drive past. He turns another corner, already looking past it and just. Freezes. That’s the only way to describe it. He’s looking at some sort of dock, old and looming. He wets his lips, wondering about the way his heart is suddenly hammering. 

There’s something about the place that makes his feet carry him towards it. He stops at a tall fence, looks through the bars and grips one of them with his hand. Suddenly, he isn’t looking at a building with nothing in front of it but machinery, he’s observing shadows of people bustling around, laughing and talking. They’re hauling boxes, crates, loading and unloading ships. His heart tugs, like he should be in there with them. 

One of the guys - tall, bowler hat on his head like some kind of statement and a moustache that near covers half his face - catches James’ eye. The guy is lumbering around with a crate that should really be carried by two guys, but he’s handling it with ease. He looks over at James, grins wide. There’s something about his smile that makes James think he should have a cigar in his mouth. 

Timothy ‘Dum Dum’ Dugan. 

The name hits him right in the gut, sucks the air out of his chest and forces him to his knees. The bustling docks blur in front of his eyes and when he blinks trying to clear his vision, everyone disappears. The men’s boisterous voices still echo in his ears. He sinks down, looking at the concrete in front of him, his hand curled into a fist. 

What the  _ fuck  _ was that?

He squeezes his eyes shut, heart hammering in his chest. He tries to suck in a deep breath, but it’s not really working. He shudders, forcing himself to look back at the docks, just to  _ check,  _ just to  _ see.  _ There’s still no one there. There’s a buzzing in his ears that makes him flinch. He gets the urge to look around himself and finds two security cameras mounted on the wall. 

He grits his teeth, forces himself to his feet and hauls ass. This time he heads straight home. 

*

He locks the door behind himself, unsure as to why but it seems like a necessity. The buzzing hasn’t left his ears and his head is spinning so hard all he can do is fumble along the wall, heading for the closet bedroom. He tugs his jeans off and collapses into the bed, heart still pounding in his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut and curls into a ball, teeth clacking together as he shakes. 

What the hell had that been? He tries to make sense of it, but he can’t come up with anything other than  _ memory.  _ It had been a memory. It had to have been. Had he lived in Brooklyn before? Had he been  _ born  _ here? God, were there people here who knew him? He’d never tried to find out who he was before, he’d just accepted that this was his life. He hadn’t even known his own  _ name,  _ where the hell would he have started, anyways?

A thought comes to him. He has a place to start, now. With a shaky hand, he reaches for his phone and types a message to Clint. He sends it, puts the phone back down and tugs the covers of the bed up. He’s exhausted. He doesn’t even take a moment to wonder what dreams will come to him tonight.

*

_ There’s snow falling outside and it’s the dead of winter. He knows this because there’s the sound of hacking and desperate gasping coming from the body he’s holding. His heart wrenches with each shudder that goes through the golden-headed man, tugging in his chest. He wants to say something, do something to help ease the pain he knows this man is in. But he knows he can’t; they go through this every year.  _

_ Santo and Johnny Farina is playing softly from the other room, crooning through the open bedroom door. Another cough hacks its way through the man’s body. _

_ “I’m fine -” he croaks out, just before another coughing fit hits him. _

_ James clenches his jaw. “You’re not, let me at least go to the doctors and get you something,” he insists. _

_ “No, no, you do this every year, you know it’ll pass in a week or two,” the man rasps, looking up at him with forget-me-not coloured eyes.  _

_ James mouth twists into a frustrated scowl. “And what if it doesn’t this time?” he snaps. The man just glares at him and James feels his anger immediately dissipate. He slumps, burying his face into the crook of the man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m just - worried,” he sighs. _

_ “I know, but I’m going to be fine -” he breaks off again, huffing and squeezing his eyes shut.  _

_ James can do nothing but watch on, his heart breaking.  _

 

He wakes up in a haze of worry, still disoriented from the dream. Memory? Whatever. He reaches for his phone to check the time and finds a text from Clint. He checks it in a hurry, remembering his request from last night.

**From: Clint**

_ Your boy was born in Red Hook and left to join the army at twenty. He was apart of the 107th before being moved to a specialised group called the Howling Commandos. Full name; Timothy Aloysius Cadwallader "Dum Dum" Dugan. Sorry man, I’m not sure why you wanted the info but he passed away in 2006, accompanying a special ops mission. IED, it says. Was there anything else you wanted to know? _

Strangely, James feels like he’s going to pass out. Instead, he swallows dryly and texts back a simple  _ ‘thanks man, that’s all’  _ and gets up to shower and get ready for work. He doesn’t have the energy to eat, but he forces down some toast and a coffee since he hadn’t managed to have dinner last night before crashing. 

He gets ready mindlessly, brushing his teeth and throwing on some clothes before heading out and locking the door behind him. When he gets the to shop he and Tony go over a contract and a tour of the place, with Tony explaining how everything was run. It’s all fairly simply and James is left to work on a few more motors. 

The day passes quickly, filled with motor oil, coffee and the weird smoothies Tony keeps appearing with. Before he knows it, it’s time for James to head home. He waves goodbye to Tony, who’s engrossed in a new car they got in that day, AC/DC blasting through the workshop. James isn’t really sure if the guy actually ever sleeps. 

The night is as cold as yesterday and snow is drifting down from the sky. James grits his teeth eyes watering at the sudden change of temperature from shop to street and begins the walk home. He has no want to go wandering again after what’d happened yesterday. He turns down the street that will take him home and instantly gets that prickling feeling on the back of his neck that tells him he’s being watched. 

He slows down, looking around himself inconspicuously. There’s not many people left of the streets, everyone is hurrying back to the warmth of their homes. No one sticks out as suspicious, until James’ eyes fall on a tall, broad-shouldered man standing still across the street, staring at him. James narrows his eyes at him, wishing he still had his long hair to hide behind. 

The man’s face is what stops him from turning and disappearing. He looks shocked; lips parted, eyes wide, face pale. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. James looks him over, but nothing tips him off as to who this guy is. He frowns, focussing on the guy’s features and - forget-me-not coloured eyes. 

James swallows, throat dry suddenly. The guy seems to shake himself and takes a step forwards, glancing around for cars. James does the only thing he knows how to do in this situation.

He runs. 

He goes the opposite way of his apartment, darting down a sidestreet and calculating all possible escape routes. He’s leaping up and gripping a fire escape before he can think about it, hauling himself up and continuing upwards onto the roof. He thinks he head someone shouting after him, but what with the howling wind, he doesn’t catch the words. 

He leaps to another roof, landing perfectly and circling around the block that way. He makes it back to the ground when he’s sure he’s lost the guy, but he can’t help but end up where he left him. The man is still there, looking around himself like he’s lost. His eyes are still wide, shocked, and his fingers are threaded through his hair, tugging at the ends like he wants to scream. 

James hovers in the shadows, staring at the man in the middle of the street who looks like he’s just had something precious ripped away from him. He looks like he’s moments away from collapsing to his knees. James frowns, simply observing. Something doesn’t sit right with him about this. Something is very, very wrong.

He leaves the man, taking the back streets to his apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Solnishka_ \- Sun


	5. Steven Rogers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the start of this is in Steve's P.O.V and switches to James' later, after <>. translations in end notes.

“Sam,  _ Sam,  _ I’m not going crazy, I swear, it was  _ him,  _ he was just standing there in the street and he  _ ran, fuck -”  _ Steve cuts off with a hysterical gasp, clutching the phone in his hand tight. 

There’s silence from the other line for a moment. “Steve, man...I know you haven’t been sleeping well, but this - this is serious. It can’t have been him. Steve, he’s  _ dead _ .” 

Steve sniffles, wiping a wet eye. “He looked right at me like he didn’t even know me,” he chokes out. “But it was him. I’d know him anywhere.”

And he had. Bucky had just been - been walking down the fucking street like he’d never left. Steve had thought he was hallucinating, at first, but then Bucky had paused and turned around, taking in every inch of his surroundings and then - and then he’d seen Steve. There had been no flicker of recognition, no emotional reaction that would signal that Bucky  _ knew him.  _ He’d looked right at him. He’d seen him. He’d looked him up and down, looked him right in the eye, and he’d run.

Steve could barely remember running after him, all he knew was that he’d seen Bucky pulling himself up onto a fire escape -  _ one arm, he only had one arm -  _ and disappearing. Steve had yelled after him -  _ “Bucky, Bucky wait! Bucky, please!”  _ \- but it hadn’t done a thing. 

“They never found his body,” he breathes into the phone. 

Sam huffs out a sigh. “Steve, don’t do this to yourself. It can’t have been him. They found his arm -”

“He only had one arm,” Steve cuts in.

“What?” 

“When I saw him today - he only had one arm.”

Sam pauses longer this time. “Steve. Please listen to me - don’t you think there would have been  _ something  _ to alert you that he was alive before now? How is this any different from the last time you thought you saw him?”

“Because he - he looked right at me. He  _ saw  _ me, Sam, he looked me right in the eye. He just didn’t recognise me, which - I get it, I’ve changed a lot, but -”

“Steve, please don’t do this to yourself,” Sam interrupts. Steve goes quiet, looks down at his feet and just stares blankly. “It’s been ten years, Steve. You need to - you need to get over him. He’s  _ gone,  _ Steve.” Sam’s voice has gone soft, like he’s holding back the sadness - the  _ pity.  _

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing down the agony in his chest. “Alright. Okay. I’m sorry Sam, I just -”

“It’s okay, man. Just get some sleep, okay? Look, I’ll come over tomorrow morning, we’ll go out for breakfast,” Sam offers.

Steve grits his teeth against the sobs that want to break out. “Yeah, yeah. Sounds good, Sam.”

“Take care of yourself, Steve,” Sam murmurs before hanging up.

Steve throws the phone onto his bed and opens his eyes, staring blankly ahead of him. It had been Bucky, he knows it. This was different from all the other times - before, when he’d thought he’d seen Bucky, the guy had just kept going and if Steve had engaged him it never turned out to be him. This time, Bucky had sensed his gaze, turned and looked at him,  _ seen him,  _ and ran like he had something to run from. 

Steve curls in on himself, closing his eyes. God, the last time he’d truly seen Bucky was when Steve had broken his heart on the sidewalk in the snow twelve years ago. Bucky had applied for the army - something he’d wanted for years. They’d  _ both  _ applied, both wanted to go together - both their fathers had been in the army. 

Bucky had gotten in. Steve hadn’t. Steve still hated himself for the way he’d reacted - bitter with jealousy, when Bucky had told him he was shipping out for basic the next day, Steve had told him they should probably split. Neither of them has any illusions as to what war was actually like, but they’d thought they’d be able to face it together. 

Steve had gone to fix things the next day, but Bucky had already packed up. That was the last he saw of him. The last he heard of him, until two years later. Steve’d gotten a letter in the mail, stamped with an official army signa. He’d opened it and fallen to his knees, cracking them on the pavement. 

He hadn’t been contacted by Bucky in two years, but he’d still had him as his next of kin. The letter was telling him that Bucky had been killed in action. An IED. There was no body to ship back, either. 

Steve hadn’t gotten out of bed for days, wracked with numb horror and grief. 

He still has days like that, sometimes, but they were less frequent. He’d gotten on with his life. He’d moved on, mostly. Today had brought everything back like it had happened yesterday. He remembered the funeral, could still taste the bitterness of his tears in the back of his throat. And Bucky hadn’t even recognised him. That’s probably what hurt the most - Steve had spent the past twelve years mourning his best friend, his best guy - his first  _ love -  _ and Bucky didn’t even remember him. 

And yet. Steve knew he was going to seek Bucky out again, keep his eyes open and see if Bucky would just. Talk to him. 

Yeah. That’s what he would do. At the very least, Steve just wanted the confirmation that he wasn’t going insane. 

<>

James was probably going insane. He can’t sleep. He can’t blink his eyes without seeing that damn shade of blue. He’s practically dragging himself to work, ignoring everything and everyone around him. Tony’s not there when he gets there, but James is an hour early so he figures Tony’s finally gone home to wherever he lives. 

James picks the lock easily enough, disabling the alarm with the code Tony had given him. He drowns himself in his work, twitchy and on edge. Tony comes in sometime later with dark under eyes and sluggish movements. He doesn’t talk much and James is grateful. They work is almost silence, sharing a few words like ‘want some more coffee’ and ‘fuck yes’. 

Sometime around one in the afternoon, Tony gives a heavy sigh and announces he’s going home. He throws the keys at James and says he can go home whenever, too. James finishes up on the transmission he’s dealing with before locking up shop and heading to the grocery store to buy ingredients for stroganoff. 

He takes a shortcut through an alleyway he didn’t even know existed, trying not to feel unnerved. The grocery store is right up ahead and he goes straight in, pinpointing what he needs and heading for it. He’s looking for the right pasta when the base of his spine goes cold and he straightens up. Somehow, he knows exactly who he’s going to turn around and see. 

He spins around, eyes already narrowed, and Rumlow’s standing right there, a sneer on his face. “Got a job for you, Winter,” he says. 

James glares. “You’re too late, Winter’s dead and buried. I’m out of that business as of four days ago,” he hisses, voice low. 

Rumlow snorts. “You still owe Pierce, you know. He wants one more job done.”

James just looks at him, blood burning. “You want to be my last job, Brock? Watch your fuckin’ tone. I owe Pierce  _ nothing,”  _ he spits. 

Rumlow goes to say something else, an ugly look twisting on his face, but James just knocks past him, forgetting about dinner. He knows Rumlow will follow, but they’re better off doing this outside than around cameras. James leads the thug back to the alleyway, shoulders squared. As soon as they’re out of the public eye, he spins around and looks Rumlow right in the eye. 

“Hear me out, Winter,” Rumlow speaks first. “Pierce wants  _ one guy  _ taken out, no messiness, full price. That’s it. Then we’ll leave you alone,” he says. 

James wants to hit him. He wants to put a bullet through Rumlow’s fuckin’ face. Instead, he just scowls. “Who is it?” 

“Guy named Nick Fury,” Rumlow replies, a delighted look on his face. 

James feels his heart thud in surprise.  _ “That  _ is something I can’t do. The guy is too far in the public eye,” he says. “That’s my final word.” 

“And if we double the price?” Rumlow offers.

James narrows his eyes. “I’m not in need of money. Find someone else to do your dirty work.” He goes to walk away, but Rumlow grabs his upper arm. James tenses up immediately, incredibly aware of the knife in his boot. 

“What if we can give you something else?” Rumlow murmurs, face far too close. 

James rips his arm away, lip curling. “Stay the fuck away from me, Rumlow, or I’ll be sending you back to Pierce in a box.” This time, when he turns away, Rumlow doesn’t grab him. He’s just about out of the alley when Rumlow speaks again. 

“I wouldn’t be so hasty to turn Pierce down,  _ zimniy soldat.”  _

James freezes, but only for a moment. The buzzing comes back and it feels like his head is in a vise but he keeps walking and he doesn’t dare look back at Rumlow. Rumlow doesn’t follow him, either. All James can hear right now, beyond the buzzing, is  _ soldat  _ ringing in his ears, bashing around in his skull. 

He needs to get out of here. This was a horrible idea. This place has too many echoes. He needs to disappear. He needs to - he needs to - 

He thinks he stumbles, but he’s not sure. He’s spinning, breathing to hard. Suddenly, there’s hands on him, someone speaking to him, but he can’t make out the words. It sounds like they’re speaking through a plaster wall. He tries to bat them away, skin crawling at the feel of their touch. He can’t  _ see  _ and it’s making him panic even more. 

A single word crashes through the haze, like the ocean on a breakwater. “Bucky?”

“Who th’hell is  _ Bucky,”  _ he slurs, then curls in on himself, trying to think past all the noise in his head. 

The hands are gone now, but there’s still someone there, someone still speaking. He tries to listen, tries to pull himself up from underwater, but he can’t. He can barely think. He squeezes his eyes shut and sinks, blocking everything out. He thinks he hears sirens, but that’s before everything goes dark. 

*

_ “He’s malfunctioning again, sir.” _

_ “Then fix him.” _

_ “He’s been wiped too many times, if we do it again -” _

_ “Just do it.” _

_ He’s in the Chair again, cold and still. There are people moving around him but he pays them no attention. In his mind, he’s going over all he knows. He’s been here nearly three years, now. He doesn’t know who he is, what he was or what he is, but he knows he wasn’t always the Winter Soldier. He wasn’t always here. He wasn’t always a killer. He wasn’t always a puppet, a plaything, a machine.  _

_ He thinks he was human, once.  _

_ The metal clasps around his head anyway. These people don’t care that he used to be human. They probably made him like this - it makes the most sense. The electricity doesn’t come on straight away. There seems to be some sort of debate going on. He sits and waits. This will most likely be a full wipe - his outburst sure as hell warrants one.  _

_ He’s still trying to remember his name - is he even has one - when the electricity hums on. It sears through his brain and he screams. It feels like a single moment and an eternity all at once, and then the metal comes away from his head. He’s still jolting through the aftershocks when someone takes the restraints off and hauls him to his feet.  _

_ He opens his eyes, looking around himself. Something isn’t right. What had he been trying to remember? Nothing. He’s a machine - why would he be thinking of a past that didn’t exist? He lets himself be walked to his cell and thrown in. He sits against the back wall and stares straight ahead, muscles still twitching.  _

 

There are harsh fluorescent lights flickering above him. His eyes are still closed, but he can hear them and see them behind his eyelids. He’s lying down, and his surroundings smell -  _ hospital.  _ He remembers - what? Passing out? There had been someone there with him. There’s - there’s someone here now, on the left side of his bed. 

His skin crawls with sudden panic, but he forces himself to calm down. Panicking never helps.  Instead, he keeps his breathing even and focuses on working out his surroundings without opening his eyes. The person with him in the room is awake, their breathing too fast to be sleeping. There’s no one else here, but there’s the steady beating of a heart monitor. Which. Fucking great, now he has to regulate his heartbeats, too. 

And, well, he can’t be bothered with that. If he’s going to get out of here, he’s going to have to get up at some point. Just as he’s about to open his eyes, the person next to him sighs and gets up from their seat. 

“I’ll be back, Bucky,” he says. 

Because it is a he. James knows that voice, but. He doesn’t. How could he? And that  _ name.  _ He still doesn’t know who Bucky is, or who this guy thinks James is. As soon as the person leaves the room, James is sitting up and taking in the room. It’s a standard emergency room, easy to get out of here. All he needs to do is get the heart monitors off and he’s on the home run. 

He takes a second to be grateful that they saw no need to put a damn IV in him. He flings the hospital sheet off of him and and stands up. He’s still fully clothed - shoes and everything - but his jacket is draped across the back of a seat. He pulls it on and pats it down, checking that his wallet and keys are still in there. Once he finds that they are, he looks over the heart monitor and presses a few buttons till it powers down. 

He unclips the monitor lines from his chest and abdomen and peeks out of the room. He checks both ways before pulling his hood up and stepping out into the hallway. His eyes take in every detail and sign - he figures out the way out quickly and walks that way. No one stops him - why would he be leaving unless he’d been checked out?

He gets out of the building without a hassle, smiling at the nurse at the front desk before risking starting to run. He takes a look at the name of the place -  _ Maimonides Medical Center -  _ and his brain tells him where to go from there. He doesn’t take the time to question  _ how  _ he knows where he’s going, just runs. 

He runs past the Green-Wood, takes the back roads through Gowanus and finds himself back in Red Hook. When he gets there he lets himself slow to a walk again. His chest is heaving but he doesn’t stop and rest. He sticks to the back roads still, aware of every person and movement. He checks over each person’s face and keeps his hood up and his shoulders hunched. No one looks at him twice. 

He makes it back to his apartment, letting himself in and going straight for the couch. He’s shaking, he realises. Unsteady. He needs to get out of Brooklyn. But, first, sleep. He wonders if he has to give Tony a two-week notice. Probably. He grits his teeth and digs the heel of his hand into his forehead. 

He reaches for his phone, scrolls through his contacts till he finds Clint. Dials. The phone keeps ringing till the voicemail sounds, and he nearly throws the phone across the room at the sudden frustration. He groans, anger coiling in his gut like a trapped serpent.  _ “Fuck!”  _ It just comes out, pent-up anger boiling over. 

He stands, chest heaving. He needs - he needs to do something. He needs to be  _ active,  _ he needs to push himself. He needs to hurt - he needs to get his hands dirty. He scrapes his hand down his face and grits his teeth, reaching for his phone again. This time, the person picks up on the second ring. Their voice is smug as they greet him. James nearly doesn’t have the patience to continue the call and as it is he spits out his demand. 

“Tell him to transfer the money within an hour. If it’s not there by the deadline, the only one I’m killing will be you.”

Rumlow’s silent for a moment before huffing. “Fine. You better do a good job, soldier.”

James hangs up and goes to change. By the time he’s done and he’s ready to go, he checks his balance and he’s definitely been paid. Double, like Rumlow said. James pulls his glove on and slings the rifle over his shoulder, strapping it to him so it’ll stay put. He grabs his face mask and goggles from the coffee table and leaves the phone on his table. 

He exits via the window. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _zimniy soldat_ \- winter soldier


	6. William Jonathan Beckham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh this is gonna start getting a little dark soon? ALSO. Disclaimer; I fuckin hate the name I came up with for Bucky but y'know Beckham = Bucky sort of so idk it worked out. Plus he's not gonna, like, keep the name, so. He'll continue to be James Barnes. So sorry for the weird and here we go! It's getting interesting! Oh hey also warning; James kills someone in this chapter.

Nick Fury is an incredibly high-up lawyer with enough money to live in an apartment building with high security. He’d based in upper Manhattan and had been seen eating out in a high-end restaurant that night. Under the cover of night, James positions himself on the roof of the building across from Fury’s. He can see the exact apartment Fury lives in, although he can’t see in. The windows are mirrored. 

This is a minor frustration, but just that. Minor. There’s a crane across from the building James is setting his rifle up on, lights flashing as it works. The lights illuminate the window every now and then, showing James the shadows of the things in Fury’s apartment. James settles on his belly and hunches behind the scope, watching and waiting. 

Time passes. He doesn’t remember how he got so good at being a sniper, but he is. He can make this shot easily. He just has to wait - and that’s something he’s very good. He can slide into a silent and still part of his mind while he waits, focus trained entirely on the mission. This time, he doesn’t have to wait that long. 

Fury moves across the living room half an hour later. 

Without hesitation, James takes the shot. He watches Fury go down and stay down. James stays low and packs up before high-tailing it out of there. It takes him hours to get back to Red Hook, what with his outfit and the  _ rifle  _ across his back - he has to stay out of sight. This is a high-risk mission and when someone finds Fury, realises he’s missing, there’s going to be a man-hunt. James has to be careful. He can leave no evidence. Even thinking about keeping the identity he has now is a risk, but one he’s going to take. 

He’s good. He gets back to the apartment without trouble. Without being seen by human or camera. He ducks back in through the window and makes quick work of packing his rifle away, hidden. He checks his phone, finds a message from Clint reading, simply,  _ ‘what?’.  _ James rolls his eyes and ignores it, sending off a  _ ‘done’  _ to Rumlow. 

He feels. Better. 

And yet, he feels guilty about that. He shakes his head as if to clear his conscience before removing his mask and putting it on the coffee table. He’s tugging at his glove when someone knocks on the door. He freezes, narrowing his eyes at the thing. He can come up with no idea as to who it would be. He gives up on the glove and just leaves it on walking over to the door and unlocking it, pulling it open. 

He has a brief thought of ‘oh shit what if it’s the cops’, but that would make no sense. He’d only just gotten back from the job and he definitely hadn’t been seen. But. The moment he opens the door, he finds that the person behind it is much worse than the cops. Because. Looking at him are wide forget-me-not coloured eyes. 

James grits his teeth and goes to slam the door in a panic, to pack up and get the hell out of here, but the guy’s foot is suddenly in the door and he looks - he looks  _ desperate.  _ “Bucky,” the guy breathes. 

James glares at him. “Who the hell is Bucky? Who are you? Why are you at my  _ apartment,”  _ he bites out, anger overtaking fear. 

“I -” the guy looks crushed. “You really don’t remember me? I -  _ you’re  _ Bucky. I’m...I’m Steve.”

Past the pounding of his heart in his ears, James can hear Steve’s breath hitch. “That doesn’t explain why you’re  _ here.  _ How do you know me?”

Steve’s eyebrows draw together and he sucks in a breath through his teeth. “God, you really don’t remember me. Okay. Okay. Um.” He seems to take a moment to gather himself. “This is probably going to sound crazy. Uh, we...were together for six years. Before you joined the army. Before that - we’ve been friends our entire lives,” he says. 

James just stares at him. His head hurts. “What year was this?” he croaks. 

Steve looks at him like  _ he’s  _ crazy. “You left for the army in 2005, Bucky. Don’t you remember?”

“You keep  _ saying  _ that - who the hell is  _ Bucky?”  _ James forces out, hand tightening on the door knob. 2005. He doesn’t remember anything before 2010, when he’d stumbled across Clint and got his head to stop spinning and  _ forgetting.  _

Steve looks almost desperate. “It’s you,” he says, softer this time. 

James grits his teeth and restrains the urge to slam the door again. “Fine,  _ fine.  _ Maybe that’s me. Why are you here? You still haven’t answered that.”

“Uh, you - you ran from the hospital. I got your address from your wallet,” Steve says, looking down sheepishly. James closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. When he opens them, he finds Steve frowning at him like he’s finally  taking in something other than James’ face. “What’re you wearing?” he asks. 

James raises an eyebrow, personality shifting into territory he knows. He’s pratisced this with Natalia far too many times. “You into leather, or something?” he murmurs, voice turning sultry even as he subtly shifts his weight into a position where he can shut the door at the same time as removing Steve’s foot from its path. He’s so going to have to leave Brooklyn. He’s somewhat surprised at the flush that goes down Steve’s neck. James narrows his eyes, watching it spread over his cheeks before sighing. “Look, man, I’ve had a really,  _ really  _ long day, and I just want to sleep.”

“You really don’t remember anything?” Steve whispers, looking defeated. 

James shakes his head. “No. I’ll let you in on a secret - I have no memory past 2010,” he says, and goes to shut the door. Steve’s moved his foot, relaxed his stance. 

“That doesn’t explain how you’re alive,” Steve says in a rush, looking up from where his gaze has dropped. 

James freezes. “What?”

“I got an official letter saying you were killed in action. In 2007.”

James lets that sink in, swallows past a dry throat. He looks away from Steve, stares unseeingly at the floor. That was - that meant there was three years in between when he supposedly  _ died  _ and when Clint found him that are unaccounted for. He doesn’t think about what that means, doesn’t think about the dreams - the  _ memories -  _ he looks up, eyes turning to steel. 

“I think it’d be best if you left now,” he spits. 

Steve looks crestfallen again, but he takes a step back. “Bucky - do you...do you remember anything? At all?” he asks.

“My names not Bucky. My name is James,” James replies, answering Steve’s question at the same time. Why hasn’t he closed the door yet?

Steve’s chewing on his bottom lip, searching James’ gaze like he’s going to find something there. “Your name is William Jonathan Beckham,” he whispers. 

James pauses like he’s waiting for something to happen, waiting for the name to settle some of the questions inside of him. Nothing happens. He doesn’t remember that name ever being his. He narrows his eyes, takes a step back and goes to close the door. Steve looks crestfallen and goes to speak, but James is already locking the door. 

He takes a deep breath and waits for the knocking or the yelling to start, but nothing comes. Instead, all he can hear is Steve walking away, footsteps heavy. James takes a moment to breathe, the conversation reeling in his head. He grabs his phone, considers texting Clint, but instead goes to google and types in William Jonathan Beckham.

He clicks on the first link - because there are  _ many -  _ and finds himself sinking to the floor, legs weak. It’s a facebook page, but the profile is private. The only thing he can see is the profile picture and a couple cover photos, but that’s enough. 

The profile picture is a picture of  _ him.  _ It’s not of him now, but take twelve years off his face and it’s him. He swallows, feeling sick. He clicks onto the friends list, finds Steve right at the top. Steve’s profile isn’t private, but there’s hardly anything on it. He scrolls through the posts, feeling wrong-footed, like he’s stumbling. Because there’s  _ no way… _

But at the same time, it’s all there in front of him. 

He can feel tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. He grits his teeth and puts the phone down, looking up at the ceiling like he’s going to find something there. Instead, there’s nothing but the paint. He chokes out a strangled sound, rocking forwards on his knees and getting up. He grabs a piece of paper and a pen and writes down what he knows.

 

  * __William Jonathan Beckham__


  * _Steve Rogers?_


  * _I died in 2007_


  * _I left for the army in 2005_


  * _There are three unaccounted for years in between my death and Clint finding me in 2010_


  * _Steve Rogers_



He stares at the list for a long, long time.

He’s going to find out more. Steve Rogers knows more. Tomorrow, he’s going to ask Steve Rogers some questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah there's _that_


	7. Winter Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ok ok translations in end notes also i'm just gonna say from here on out it's get quite dark and violencey so if you're not into that idk read with caution but also things are unraveling now yay

_ There have been so many deaths, including his own. There are the people - his  _ men -  _ who he sees dying over and over in the back of his head. There are strangers who he looks down his scope at, whose lives he takes. There is himself, killed over and over again every time the electricity crashes through him.  _

_ He’s so tired of all the death. Of everything. Of being forced to train, to become ‘better’, a machine for his enemies. They don’t trust him, but they think he’d given up. They think he doesn’t remember. And sure, he doesn’t remember his name or where he comes from or how he got here, but he remembers all the death. _

_ And that’s enough. _

_ The thing is, these people have trained him to be a ghost, to do anything they want him to do flawlessly. The thing is, these people don’t realise you can’t just erase a person. You can’t take out bits and pieces and leave a blank slate. They left him the fight, because that’s what they needed him for. And he has this fight, this burning anger singeing his veins.  _

_ He has to get out. He’s due for another mission in an hour, one that will take him far from the base. He doesn’t know who he is to kill, but he knows that he won’t. He won’t do it. He’s sitting in the back of a truck with men whose names he doesn’t know. The man to his right has a stun baton, one he’s felt on the highest voltage many times.  _

_ He’s going to get out. His eyes are on his feet - he’s not allowed to look around - but he can just see the landscape flashing by. He remains still, not giving away his thoughts. If he turns on them now, these people have no chance. They don’t expect him too, of course. He’s their perfect little soldier. Their machine. Their puppet. Their  _ sobaka. 

_ He wants to rip out their throats like the dog they think he is. He’s said he’s tired of killing, but because of these men, he’s bred like a bloodhound, bred for the hunt, bred for the kill. He can’t shake that off.  _

_ The vehicle stumbles to a halt, wheels grinding on rocks and snow. They’re on the Belarus border - he’d heard them talking. The back of the truck opens up and the men pile out, his at their heels. He stands close to his handler, keeping up the blank-eyed look he wears. Orders are snapped at the men, then at him. _

_ He is to kill a man known at Alekai. Instead, he’s going disappear. They trained him as a ghost and a ghost he will be. As the men move out he takes a moment to make his plan. He’s got three trackers in him - one in his thigh, one in his neck and one in his bicep. He’s sure there’s some in his clothes as well. These are the things that need to go as soon as they can. _

_ First, he needs to disappear. He needs to make sure he’s not looked for, but - how?  _

_ The answer comes to him in the form of their transport. He’s loaded onto a train and sat down in his designated seat. He continues to stare blankly. If he could just - cause a scene. Create chaos. He could slip away, jump off the train. Run. He needs to wait for a place that has a low chance of survival. _

_ He doesn’t have to wait long. The train moves along, through a tunnel and out into the open, racing along a cliff face. He stares out the window out of the corner of his eye, something like hope building up in his chest. He stands, lunges for his handlers throat first. The men had been talking, ignoring him like they always do.  _

_ Just has he had hoped, chaos erupts. Guns are drawn, the shouting starts. He disarms the men in this carriage without trouble, knocking a few to the floor. One is trying to contact backup, but he is dead in a second. He doesn’t know who he is, but he has been their soldier for far too long. He takes one of the guns, slams it against the glass of one of the windows. In a few hits, the wind roars into the carriage, nearly taking him by surprise.  _

_ No one is moving against him - they’re all unconscious. The people who find them like this will search the train first, but they won’t find him. The train is moving fast, the landscape but a white blur. He stares out of the window, before hauling himself up and jumping. He can’t help but scream. He wonders if he’ll die rather than run free, but finds that either outcome is better than staying with - with -  _ Hydra. 

 

Hydra. He sits upright, heart hammering in his chest. He’d - he’d been a captive of Hydra.  _ Soldat. Zimniy Soldat.  _ Oh, god, he’d - he’d killed so many people, so many innocent people and he’d escaped the people who’d  _ made  _ him do it and  _ he’d just kept doing it _ . He curls in on himself, horror squeezing his gut. He’s a monster. 

Why were the memories coming back now? After seven years, why is he getting the answers now? He’s in his bed, vaguely remembers stumbling there and collapsing into it before passing out last night. He’d found himself scrolling through Steve’s facebook, drinking in every piece of information he could find about William Jonathan Beckham. 

He and Steve had been best friends, like Steve had said. They’d been partners, lovers, and they’d loved each other wholeheartedly. On the date of William’s death every year Steve and some of his friends held a get together with everyone who could make it. This is probably what made James want to find Steve the most - he needed to ask him  _ questions.  _

And - and James needed to hunt down  _ Hydra.  _ But he wouldn’t have to do that alone. He gets out of bed, forced himself to shower. He eats some toast, unable to stomach anything else. Today is a Sunday - the only day Tony’s shop isn’t open. James is out the door as quick as he can, jogging down the stairs and texting Natalia. 

**To: Nat**

_ When are you going to be in Brooklyn next? _

 

The reply comes lightning fast, surprising him. 

**From: Nat**

_ I can be there tomorrow morning. What’s up? _

 

**To: Nat**

_ Tell you tomorrow. _

 

With that sorted, James hurries down the street. He has no idea where Steve lives, but he’d been restless in that apartment. He needs to just walk for a bit. He dials Clint’s number, hoping that this time he’ll pick up. And he does, on the last ring. 

_ “Barton,”  _ comes through the line. 

James takes a turn, ducking down a side-street. “Clint, can I ask you a big favor?” 

_ “Am I breaking into government official stuff again?”  _

“No, but it might be worse than that? I need you to dig up everything you can about a group called Hydra. I’m pretty sure they’re Russian, but I could be wrong. I have no idea if they’re still active, but it’s important,” he says, subconsciously looking over every person he passes on the street and checking for danger, for threats. 

Clint’s quiet for a moment.  _ “James...Why are you asking me about Hydra? How do you even know that name?”  _

James stops. Right in the middle of the street, he stops. “What do you know,” he growls, picking up the pace again, glaring at the sidewalk. 

_ “Tell me where you heard the name, first,”  _ Clint demands, sounding deadly serious in a way that sends James’ head spinning. 

He ducks into an alley, getting off the street. “Inside my head. I...it was a memory. I dreamed about it,” he admits. Clint is quiet for so long James has to check the call is still connected. It is. “Clint?” he prompts. 

_ “Where are you right now?”  _

“In an alley, why? Clint, what do you know?” He’s losing his patience. 

_ “Get off the streets, come straight to my apartment. This is serious, James,”  _ Clint hisses. 

James can hear him walking around, cursing under his breath. “I have someone I need to see -” he protests, frowning. This feels ominous, like everything is far bigger than it once seemed. 

_ “Straight here. Please.” _

“Alright. I’ll be there in an hour,” he says and hangs up, heart pounding. 

He’s suddenly incredibly glad he brought along a couple of knives. He gets going immediately, keeping his head down and walking fast. He almost walks into a couple of people, flinching away from them just in time. The walk from Red Hook to Bedford-Stuyvesant is long but the way Clint  _ talked -  _ this is serious, James knows. 

The events of his dream buzz around his brain like bees, stinging, loud. He’s so focussed on not dissolving into panic that when someone grabs his arm he doesn’t think, just acts. The person is on the ground in a second and James finds himself leaning over them, lips drawn back in a snarl and one hand hovering over a sheathed knife. 

Steve stares up at him, eyes wide. 

James draws back, subtly glancing around. People are staring, stopped in what they were doing. He curses internally before offering his hand to Steve and hauling him up. He tugs him close, feins a hug. People continue, though they still watch. “What do you want,” he hisses into Steve’s ear, pulling back and keeping him at arm’s length. 

Steve’s breathing a little quicker, eyes still wide and shocked. He doesn’t look hurt, just startled. “I - I don’t think you heard me calling your name, I’m sorry - I wasn’t thinking -”

“What do you  _ want,”  _ James presses, Steve’s rambling adding to the buzzing in his head. 

Steve presses his lips together, taking in a deep breath and seeming to think before he speaks. “I just want to talk. I don’t know what’s going on,” he murmurs. 

James searches his eyes, finds nothing but truth. “Another time,” he says, moving to step around him and carry on to Clint’s. Steve steps with him and James freezes, glaring at him.  _ “Move.”  _

“What happened, Bucky?” Steve whispers. 

James shakes his head. “This isn’t the time nor the place -” he cuts off as his eyes catch a flicker of red. He looks past Steve, scouring the area and - there. Natalia is walking down the sidewalk, her steps unfamiliar. She’s working on not drawing attention to herself. She’s doing well. 

“Bucky? What’s -”

James glares at Steve, silencing him. Natalia breezes past them, her hand touching his briefly. Steve’s eyes flicker over to her, but then go straight back to James’. James remains impassive, hand curling around the piece of paper in his hand. He doesn’t have to look behind him to know that Natalia has disappeared. 

“Come with me,” he says, stepping around Steve and heading for Clint’s. 

Steve spins around, hurrying after him. “Do you...remember anything?” he asks, falling into step with him. 

James scowls, looking down at the paper in his hand. It reads, simply,  _ ‘Meet you at Clint’s. Hurry up.’  _ “I get flashes. Look, we’re talking about this now. Just wait.”

“Where’re we going?” 

James crunches up the piece of paper and shoves it in his pocket. If Natalia’s involved as well as Clint, it must be something bad. “Just stay quiet and walk faster,” he says. “If you want answers, I’m going to have to find them first.”

He knows Steve must be bursting with even more questions now, but he stays quiet. James counts his blessings and quickens the pace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> zimniy soldat - winter soldier  
> sobaka - dog


	8. Tread carefully, Barnes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations in end notes

Steve looks skeptical when they arrive at Clint’s building, but James just goes on up and knocks on the door. His stomach is a knot of nerves and Steve being there most likely isn’t helping, but Steve has answers. Steve knows the guy he apparently used to be. Clint knows the name Hydra. Natalia is somehow wrapped up in all of this. 

It feels like the only one out of the loop is James himself, and this is  _ his  _ life. He swallows dryly, knocks again when no one answers the door. It swings open a moment later, Natalia glaring up at them. “Who’s this?” she asks, voice sharp and hostile. 

“Steve. He knew me before I left for the army,” James says, pushing past her. 

“Before you  _ what,”  _ Natalia hisses, pulling Steve inside when he hesitates, shutting the door and locking it. 

James looks around the apartment, surprised to find it marginally tidy. The curtains are drawn, blocking out the natural light and Clint’s pacing rather than sitting on the couch with a box of pizza like he usually is. He looks up, eyes glinting with steel when he sees James. “That was quick,” he says. 

“I need you both to tell me what’s going on,” James demands, voice steady despite the way he’s shaking. 

Clint’s eyes cut to Steve, seeming to realise he’s there for the first time. “You trust him?” he asks. 

James looks over at Steve, who just looks bewildered and unsure, like he’s suddenly regretting following James here. “No, but he won’t repeat anything said here. Now  _ tell me  _ why me mentioning Hydra sent you both into a panic.”

Natalia makes a soft sound, her shoulders slumping. “James, you have to understand that we didn’t know,” she murmurs. 

“Know  _ what,”  _ James near cries, whipping around to glare at her. 

Clint steps forward and James flinches back, instantly hit with bewilderness, wondering why he did it. Clint looks crestfallen and the room loses some of it’s tension as he realises how worked up James it. “You might...let’s just all sit down, okay? Including you,” he says to Steve. “Who wants coffee?” 

James just shakes his head, stomach turning over. He takes a seat on the couch and Natalia settles down beside him, tucking her feet underneath her. Steve’s still hovering awkwardly by the front door. “Steve, this is Natalia and Clint. You guys, this is Steve. Like I said, we’ve known each other for a long time,” James introduces. 

Steve dips his head in a nod, looking smaller under Natalia’s gaze. “I - I found out that Bucky was alive a few days ago,” he says. 

“Bucky? Wait - found out he was alive?” Clint echoes, drifting back over with the coffee pot and some mugs. 

James shakes his head. “We’ll get to that. First, I need to know about Hydra,” he demands. 

The room goes quiet - Steve confused, Clint tentative and Natalia stormy. Natalia speaks first. “What do know? You said you heard the name in one of your dreams,” she prompts. 

James finds his gaze settling anywhere but someone’s face. “I don’t - I don’t remember, exactly. The dream was a memory, I know that much. They, uh.” He stops, sucking in a breath through his teeth. He glances at Steve who has drifted closer, eyes on James. “I think something happened when I was in the army that made them think I was dead. Steve received a letter saying I was killed in action, but, obviously, I wasn’t. I was taken.” 

Natalia’s eyes flash with something like fire and she narrows her eyes. “By Hydra?”

“I think so. I was - I get flashes? Of - of lights. And blood, and people, and - fuck - and electricity,” he bites out. “I was there for three years. I remember fighting, but they had this - Chair. They had the Chair and it made me forget.” He chokes out a bitter laugh. “Everything’s murky, but I remember them redirecting my fight to their side. I killed for them. I was their -  _ zimniy soldat.” _

Natalia freezes up, eyes going wide. “Say that again,” she demands. 

He looks at her, feeling drained.  _ “Zimniy soldat,”  _ he complies. 

“You’re - no, you’re  _ dead,”  _ she hisses. “There were complications - malfunctions - he died on a train by the -”

“Belarus border?” he cuts in. 

She falls silent and something about her has shut off, like she’s not comfortable around him anymore. She stares at him, lips a thin line. “You’re saying you’re the Winter Soldier?” she asks.

His blood runs cold. “You were there,” he says, voice blank.

She stands up, stalking away with a saunter that he  _ recognises.  _ “I was theirs, too,  _ soldat.  _ You were in Department X, me? I was with the Red Room.”

“I helped train you,” he whispers, horrified. 

She glares at him. “You  _ disciplined  _ me. Until I got too good, then they took you away. I had too much of my own brain for their liking. I got out. Guess who they sent after me?” she asks. He hates the way he can’t pick out any emotion in her voice. “You,  _ soldat.  _ They sent you to kill me. And you nearly succeeded - if I hadn’t  _ moved -”  _ she stops, turning to face them. 

He watches with bile in his throat as she pulls up the hem of her shirt, showing him a bullet wound he’s seen before. Only now, he can piece the mark together with a memory - sand all around him, stones digging into his stomach. Blood. Always so much blood. He  _ failed,  _ but - 

“If I had wanted you dead,  _ chernaya vdova,  _ you would be.” 

She studies him, further away that she’s ever been. “You were a puppet,” she murmurs. “It wasn’t your choice.” The anger seems to seep out of her, and she scrapes a hand down her face. “Shit. I’m sorry, it’s just. I never thought I’d have to see you again. The Winter Soldier still haunts my nightmares.”

He flinches. “I’m -”

_ “Don’t.”  _ It’s Clint speaking. “It wasn’t your fault. They put you in the Chair, you said?” he asks. James nods, looking at him reluctantly. He can’t help but acknowledge how Natalia is staying away from him. “Look at this,” Clint says softly. 

He’s got a folder in his lap and he throws it over to James. James catches it, looking down at the cover. Immediately, he feels sick. The Chair is pictured on the front, a diagram of it underneath detailing how it works and what it does. “They burned my memories out of me,” he says.

A choked sound comes from his left and he looks up. Steve’s still standing there, eyes wide and suspiciously shiny. James clenches his jaw, hand curling into a fist before looking back down. He turns the page and sucks in a startled breath. There’s a picture of him stuck to the page, but he’s hardly recognisable. He’s wearing full tac gear - the same stuff he has today and jumped out of the train wearing - including the mask and goggles. His hair hangs limply at the sides of his masked face, further making him unrecognizable.

“Hydra are a secret division run in Russia, but they have bases in Germany, Kazakhstan and Iran. I’m part of a team dedicated to taking them down and so is Natalia. They focus on human experimentation and their purpose is something along the lines of taking over the world,” Clint says. 

James looks up, feeling strangely hollow. “Order through pain,” he mutters. 

“I’ve heard that far too many times,” Clint sighs. “Along with the usual ‘cut off one head, two more shall take it’s place’ crap. Anyway, The Winter Soldier Project was started in 2007 and continued for three years before their protege lost it and threw himself off a moving train into a gorge.”

James frowns down at the file again, eyes raking over the ‘deceased’ stamp. “I didn’t lose it. I knew what I was doing,” he says. 

“James…” Clint trails off, eyebrows drawing together.

“I didn’t want to die. I’d already tried that - I just wanted out. I don’t know what happened with the wipe that day but it didn’t work. I retained knowledge that I was human, rather than another one of Hydra’s weapons. I knew they wouldn’t look for my body - what was the point? No one could have survived that fall.” He takes a deep breath, studying the words on the file. “I remember - before each mission they would inject me with something. It was classified, only one person ever did it and no one ever knew. Afterwards, I was always stronger, faster, more durable. I could go without sleep for days. It wore off after about a week, but while I had it I felt indestructible. It must helped me survive.” He’s not sure why everything’s coming back now. 

The room is silent again. He wonders if he should continue, but something tells him he should stop for now. He looks up, straight at Clint. Clint’s got an incredibly sad look on his face, like he’s imagining everything James had gone through. “So you survived and came here? Why here?” Clint asks. 

“He was born in Red Hook,” Steve speaks up, sounding choked up. Everyone turns to look at him. He shuffles his feet, cheeks red. “His name is - used to be - William Jonathan Beckham, if you want to look it up.”

James shakes his head. “Steve’s telling the truth. I did look it up. I’m officially dead, I even have a grave in St Paul’s.”

Clint looks unnerved. “So, what, you just happened to find this guy again?”

“More like he found me. We haven’t...talked, but we’re going to. Apparently, we grew up together,” James sighs, suddenly exhausted. 

Steve’s looking at him, searching his eyes like he’s going to find the answer to everything there. He looks worn out and in shock, clearly not expecting all of this. And for all of this to happen to his former best friend? His former boyfriend? It must be a lot for the guy. James considers him, finding himself surprised that Steve’s holding up so well.

Clint looks between them, gaze calculating. “Maybe you guys should have that talk. Me and Natalia are going to run some errands, dig up some more stuff for you, James,” he says and stands up, heading over to Natalia. 

  
James barely registers them leaving before he brings his knees up to his chest and pats the space on the couch beside him. Steve hesitates, before walking over and settling down. It’s only silent for a moment, both exhaustion and tension floating in the air between them. Steve speaks first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> zimniy soldat - winter soldier  
> chernaya vdova - black widow


	9. Sam Wilson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ??? steve's POV in the beginning, changes to Bucky's after  <>

“I went to your funeral.”

Steve wants to take it back the moment Bucky clenches his jaw, a muscle jumping. “I can’t find it in myself to apologise, somehow,” Bucky bites out. 

“No, I don’t - I don’t expect you to. It wasn’t your fault. I just...I went to your funeral and you were still  _ alive.”  _ Steve sucks in a breath through his teeth, looking away from the cold intensity of Bucky’s stare. “I’m still expecting to wake up and for this to all be some dream,” he admits. 

Bucky doesn’t say anything and when Steve looks back up he finds him blank-faced, a thousand-yard-stare making his features look hollow. When he speaks, it’s so quiet Steve almost goes to turn his hearing aids up. “I don’t have any memory past 2010.” The pause afterwards goes for so long Steve wonders if he’s going to speak again. “I get these...dreams. I know they’re memories. Some of them are hazy, some so vivid I wake up screaming with a gun in my hand. I don’t remember how, but I know over ten languages and how to shoot a man from one hundred yards. I know over twenty ways to kill someone in under two minutes with no weapon other than myself and I know how to walk down a street without anyone noticing I’m there. I don’t know how I  know any of this, but I do. And I know you.” Bucky’s gaze cuts to Steve’s, sending chills down his spine. “Somehow, I know you.”

Steve swallows dryly, feeling cold. He’s flailing through muddy waters, here, not sure where to put his foot next. He reads in between the lines; he knows Bucky’s killed people before - he’d gone to  _ war -  _ but now Steve knows it’s so much worse than that. “What...what did you do when you got out?” he asks.

Bucky gives a dry laugh. “You have to understand that I didn’t even know my own name. I was meaningless and when someone eventually took advantage of the one-armed homeless man, I discovered just how good I was at staying alive. I went from there. Found Clint. Made connections. Jobs started rolling in.” He shrugs like everything that’s happened to him is no big deal.

“What do you remember about me?” Steve asks, steering clear of the direction the delicate conversation has taken. 

Bucky leans back, the dark body language slipping away like a shawl. “You were smaller and your hands were always covered in paint and charcoal,” he says immediately, surely. His face turns downwards into a frown. “There was a woman and...we both loved her very much. She made us breakfast, sometimes,” he murmurs. 

It’s like a dagger twisting in Steve’s stomach. “Sarah Rogers,” he whispers. “She was my mum.”

Bucky looks at him, searching. “Do I have any family?” 

His voice is so flat Steve wonders if he really wants to know. “No, you were an orphan,” he says. 

Bucky nods like it’s something he was expecting. “You left me,” is what he says next and Steve’s heart plummets. “It was cold and there was snow and I didn’t want you to but you  _ left.  _ You said that love wasn’t enough and then you left and I had to go.” A dark smile twists at the corners of Bucky’s lips. “I remember that.”

“I regretted it the moment I woke up the next morning,” Steve whispers, body frozen and heart thumping wildly. He wonders what this conversation feels like for Bucky, who barely remembers them ever being in love. 

Bucky looks at him sharply. “You never made contact, did you?” he asks. “And then I died and you thought you’d never get the chance.” All Steve can do is nod. Bucky purses his lips. “Why are you here?”

It’s the last thing Steve expects. “What?”

“You haven’t seen me in twelve years. Why are you here?” 

Steve fish-mouths, caught. His head’s spinning. “I -” Steve’s phone chooses this moment to start ringing and he can see Bucky shutting down, face going blank and body becoming tense. Steve swallows and checks the caller ID, wincing at Sam’s name shining up at him. He answers it, sending Bucky an apologetic look. “Hi, Sam,” he says. 

_ “Rogers, where the fuck are you? We have plans tonight,”  _ comes through the phone, Sam’s voice annoyed. 

Steve’s still looking at Bucky, torn. “I got caught up with an old...friend,” he admits. 

_ “Steve...do you think you’re with Bucky right now? Where are you?”  _ Sam’s tone goes from annoyed to concerned and panicked. 

“Sam, it’s not - it really is him, this time,” Steve immediately insists, looking down at his knees and frowning. 

_ “Where are you, Steve? I’ll come and get you.”  _

Steve bites his lip, about to reply, when Bucky’s taking the phone and hanging up. Steve gapes, a scowl taking over his face when he takes in Bucky’s face, which is distracted, eyes sweeping over the apartment. He looks at Steve, holding one finger up to his lips, telling Steve to be quiet. Steve shuts up. He looks around the apartment, skin crawling suddenly. Bucky’s standing, tensed and coiled like he’s waiting for something. 

Steve’s phone goes off again and all hell breaks loose. The door is on the floor of the apartment, cracking at the hinges, and people are pouring in, guns leveled at them. Bucky moves like lightning, pushing Steve to the floor and grabbing something from under the couch. Steve’s heart rate goes up several notches as the sound of gunfire pierces his ears. 

He can’t see Bucky but he above the gunfire he can hear bodies hitting the ground. All Steve can do is stay shielded by the couch and try stave of the panicking. His phone is still ringing but he can’t even think about answering it. The thought of calling the cops goes through his mind but - but he’s pretty sure that’s the wrong thing to do here. 

He sees the feet a second later, moving past the couch and pausing, before there’s a gun pointed at his face. Steve can’t even blink before the guy goes down, a hole in the side of his head and blood gurgling out of it. He claps a hand over his mouth, stomach turning over and shock making him freeze up.  

The gunfire stops a moment later. He stays where he is, breathing heavily and trying not to have a full-blown panic attack right here. Maybe he should have listened to Sam and stayed on the anxiety meds. He’s not sure he’s even seeing things right, what with all the unrealistic things happening - maybe he really is having hallucinations again, god, maybe he’d  _ imagining  _ all of this and - 

“Steve, it’s clear,” comes from behind the couch. It’s Bucky’s voice but Steve’s still trying to  _ breathe  _ goddamnit. A shadow falls over him and he flinches, but then Bucky’s crouching in front of him, hand hovering over Steve’s. “Steve, hey, I need you to get up, okay? We need to get out of here,” Bucky says, eyes searching his. 

Steve swallows, giving a jerky nod. Bucky nods back and offers his hand to Steve’s, helping him up. “Try not to look at the bodies if you’re feeling sick,” Bucky says suddenly and Steve keeps his eyes firmly on Bucky’s face, knowing he’s pale. 

Bucky nods again and takes his hand from Steve’s, picking up a gun. Steve feels his stomach lurch, but he holds everything down. Bucky’s got a backpack over his shoulder and he seems to be searching through the papers on the coffee table. He moves confidently and it hits Steve that this -  _ this -  _ is most likely familiar to Bucky. It’s a far cry from the fist fights in alleys they used to get caught up in. From the fights he gets into  _ now.  _

Bucky’s set the gun down and is shoving files and other papers into the backpack, muttering to himself under his breath. He doesn’t look fazed by the blood pooling around his boots and the - Steve looks up at the ceiling, breathing in through his mouth and out through his nose. “Who were they?” he asks, cursing inwardly as his voice shakes. 

“Possibly Hydra. Possibly Pierce’s men. Might have been the Mafia Clint’s pissed off and it could have been any number of assholes after my head,” Bucky spits. “Either way they want to kill me and I need to get you out of here before they try kill you, too.”

Steve finds that none of that helped his panicking. “I know a place we could go,” he offers. 

“Where’s that?” Bucky asks, slinging the backpack over his shoulder again and grabbing a pen. He’s writing on the wall when Steve remembers he needs to reply. 

Bucky’s just putting dots on the wall in an order that looks like morse code. “Uh, my friend’s. No one would expect you to go there, right?” Steve replies. 

“Correct. How far away is it?” Bucky moves away from the wall, stepping over a body with a carelessness that has Steve squeezing his eyes shut. 

“It’s in Park Slope.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything and when Steve opens his eyes to look at him, he’s rifling through a bag still on a dead guy’s back. Steve huffs out a breath. “Alright, c’mon,” Bucky says and heads for the door, a keychain tucked into his pocket and a handgun visible through his shirt tucked into his waistband. Steve walks after him, stomach churning again as he has to step over several bodies. Bucky looks at him, face strangely white. “I’m not going to judge you if you throw up, you know. I’d rather you do it here than in the car.”

Steve throws up in the hallway. 

They get downstairs eventually, Bucky checking every possible place someone could be hiding in. He unlocks a car that’s parked haphazardly on the street and instructs Steve to get in first while he’s looking across the tops of buildings and around the street. “How are you feeling?” Bucky asks, taking the car out of park and peeling out onto the road. 

Steve looks down at his hands, which are shaking. “How did you…” he trails off, head reeling. 

“I don’t remember learning how, but I could have taken down far more than that,” Bucky informs him.

When Steve looks over at him he sees Bucky’s not entirely unharmed. He’s got a stripe of blood across one cheek and his top is ripped and Steve can see blood through it, painting his left side. “Are you okay?” he asks. 

“I’ll have a look at it when he get to your pal’s place. What’s the address?” Bucky brushes it off, eyes not straying from the road. 

Steve tells him. His phone goes off a moment later and he flinches. He ignores the concerned look Bucky gives him and answers it. “Sam?”

_ “Steve, I am  _ this  _ close to getting the cops involved again, do you know how worried I am? Where the fuck are you?”  _

“I’m, uh, on my way to your place, actually,” Steve admits, glancing at Bucky who simply takes a sharp left, face blank. 

_ “Are you driving?” _

“No, um. I’m bringing someone with me.”

_ “I swear to god Steve, if your dumb ass -” _

“I’ll see you soon, Sam,” Steve cuts in, heart thumping uncomfortably. He’s dug himself into a real mess here. Sam mutters something else about idiots before hanging up. Steve locks his phone and stares down at the black screen, feeling oddly calm all of a sudden. He’s probably gone into shock. “What’s going to happen to your friends,” he asks. 

“They’ll be fine. They’re survivors. Natalia probably already knows what’s happened, honestly.” Bucky says, pulling over all of a sudden. “Come on, we’re getting another car. There’s probably a tracker on this one.”

Steve follows him to a car parked on the side of the road, feeling hollow. He keeps a lookout as Bucky efficiently hotwires the car after somehow getting it open without the alarm going off. They drive from there to Park Slope, stopping a few blocks from Sam’s. From there they walk to Sam’s apartment building, going up the stairs when Bucky mutters something about not liking elevators. 

Steve finds himself knocking on Sam’s door hesitantly, Bucky’s eyes burning into the back of his head. Sam opens the door, looking both relieved and angry, but freezes, eyes snapping to Bucky. “Steve, who is this?” he asks. 

Steve feels Bucky move, sees him offering a hand to Sam. “The name’s apparently Bucky,” he says. 

Something wild leaps in Steve’s chest, choking him. Sam glares at Bucky, suspicion bleeding from him. “Sam, can we just come in? I’ll explain everything once we’re all sat down,” he pleads. 

Sam looks Steve over, concern etched into his face as he takes in the state Steve’s in. “Alright, but you better start talking,” he says, stepping back to let them in. 

The first thing Bucky does is take in every inch of the place, stalking over to the windows and pulling the curtains shut. He locks the door behind them and only then does he come to stand still, looking at Sam silently. Sam scowls at him, but Steve doesn’t miss the way Sam’s eyes flicker over the rip in Bucky’s shirt and the blood there and on his face. 

“Who are you?” Sam asks. 

Bucky narrows his eyes, clearly thinking about how to answer that question. “I am Steve’s Bucky, I just don’t really remember being him. Right now my name is James.” 

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Steve, this guy is -”

“Look, Sam,” Steve cuts in, offering his phone to Sam. 

Sam purses his lips, taking the phone and looking down at Bucky’s facebook profile. Steve watches the way Sam’s scowl falls right off his face as he looks from the phone to Bucky and back again. “So they look alike, you went to Bucky’s  _ funeral,  _ Steve,” Sam says.

“I know, but the army made a mistake, Bucky was -”

Bucky steps forwards, silencing Steve with a sharp look. “You trust this guy, Steve?” he asks. 

Sam looks like he’s going to punch someone but Steve just nods. Bucky sighs and swings the backpack around to his front, pulling a folder out from it. Steve feels the nausea build up again as he recognises the same folder Clint had given him, the one that had the information about the Winter Soldier. 

“Look through that before you make any assumptions,” Bucky says, offering the folder to Sam. 

Sam takes it warily, glaring at Bucky before looking down at the folder and frowning at the Chair on the front page. Half of the words are in Russian, but some are English. Steve watches the frown deepen as Sam flicks to the next page. Sam’s grip on the folder tightens as he reads and he doesn’t notice Bucky moving over to the couch and sitting down. 

“Jesus Christ,” Sam breathes, closing the folder and looking up at Steve, eyes wide. 

Steve just nods, but it’s Bucky who speaks. “Far from it,” he mutters. “Sorry for barging in, but I needed somewhere to drop Steve off out of the line of fire,” he says. 

“What? Bucky, you can’t go back out there, you’re hurt and there are people trying to  _ kill  _ you,” Steve sputters. 

Bucky raises an eyebrow, looking up from where he’d been checking out the wound on his side. He drops his shirt back down, scowling. “There have  _ always  _ been people trying to kill me. I know how to handle this, Steve,” he says. 

“Okay, I’ve clearly missed something here,” Sam speaks up. 

Bucky closes his eyes. “Fucking - okay. Here. Can I borrow your bathroom to clean this up? Steve can fill you in. Steve, drink some water and put your feet up, you’re still in shock,” he says, standing up and moving stiffly in the direction of the bathroom. Sam nods at him and Bucky disappears, muttering something under his breath. 

Sam turns back to Steve, raising an eyebrow. Steve huffs a sigh. “You might want to sit down,” he admits. 

<>

James doesn’t bother trying to listen in on the conversation, shutting and locking the bathroom door behind him. He strips off his shirt, hunts down a flannel and wets it, washing the blood on his side away. He finds a shallow graze, nothing to worry about, so he reaches into the bag Clint always keeps packed for emergencies and sticks a bandage over the wound. The cut on his face is from a goddamn knife being thrown at him - a knife that he used to end the guy who managed to hit him. 

It’s deeper than the one on his side and still bleeding. He wipes away most of the blood even though he knows it’s just going to irritate it and make it bleed more. He searches through the bag and finds what he needs before setting about putting in a couple of messy but efficient sutures in his cheek. He puts on a few butterfly closures as well before deeming it good enough and washing the rest of his face. 

He sinks to the ground and, using the untraceable phone from the backpack, calls Clint. The call connects immediately. _ “If you’re not James I don’t give a flying fuck, but if you are please be alive,”  _ is shouted in James’ ear. 

James winces, but finds a smile curling on his face. “It’s me, asshole. Are you guys alright? Have you been back to the apartment yet?” he asks. 

_ “Oh thank fuck. Nat! He’s alive!” _ Clint shouts away from the phone. 

Something is yelled in the background before James is listening to a brief squabble and the sound of a fist connecting with a gut and a body hitting the floor. _ “James,”  _ Natalia breathes, sounding, for once, flustered. 

“Natalia, are you guys alright?” James repeats, finding himself smiling even wider, pulling at the sutures. 

_ “Clint and I are fine. Deke came up when he heard us coming home, told us he saw you and Steve getting away in one of the bastard’s cars,”  _ she informs him. 

James closes his eyes, relief flooding through him. “Okay. Okay. Do you know who they are?” 

_ “They’re sort of Hydra, that’s for sure. But it’s a little more complicated than that. Nothing to do with Clint or me, though, so they’re definitely after you. Where are you?”  _

“I’m in a secure place,  _ pauk.  _ Don’t worry. What can you give me about them?” he asks, looking around the bathroom as he speaks. 

Natalia sighs. _ “Not much. From their belongings they’re American, but they’re not the authorities. Who’ve you gotten tangled up with this time, kotik?” _

“Not sure at the moment. Thank you, Natalia, keep in touch, okay? I’m still in Brooklyn. Sorry for making a mess of Clint’s apartment,” James says sincerely. 

Natalia scoffs.  _ “It was a mess anyway. You have enough supplies?”  _ she checks. 

Once he’s assured her that everything is under control, they hang up. Immediately, James dials another number, anger building in his gut. The phone rings. And rings. And rings. And - connects.  _ “Who is this?” _ is growled into the phone, the voice gruff and a distracted, like the phone call has interrupted something on their end. 

James finds himself smiling. “Why, I’m offended. I would have thought you’d be expecting a call from me,” he purrs into the phone. He’s already slipped into another personality like a second skin. 

Rumlow is silent for a moment before cursing.  _ “Winter. To what do I owe this honor?”  _ comes the shaky question. 

James scowls. “You know very well why I’m calling, scum. You’re lucky that it’s just a call at this point. Did Pierce sic his men on me or not?” he demands. “And don’t hesitate, Rumlow, it’s one of your tells.”

_ “Fuck you, zimniy.” _

James suppresses the urge to lash out. “Don’t make me hunt you down, Rumlow. Don’t make me force you to tell me. Do this the  _ easy  _ way,” he offers, even though he’s already imagining all the ways to make Rumlow tell him what he wants. 

A pause.  _ “Fuck you. Yes, okay. Pierce didn’t want any witnesses to your job, even you. He’s a cautious man,”  _ Rumlow admits. 

James smiles. “Thank you, Rumlow, for your cooperation. Remind Pierce who I am and that those men were more than a pathetic attempt on my life,” he says, hanging up the phone before Rumlow can speak again. 

Pierce. Alexander Pierce. One of the most powerful men in the underground drug and weapons cartel - someone you really don’t want to get on the bad side of. Someone that, if you manage to do just that, won’t hesitate to get you six feet under by morning. Someone that used to hire James a lot, but only just recently found reason to get James killed. Someone who will now be on James’ tail until James is really dead and buried this time. 

James drops his head into his hand and takes a deep breath. He texts the newfound information off to Natalia and takes a moment to settle back down into a state of utter concentration and calmness. Only then does he start making a plan. No one was left at the apartment to tell Pierce about Steve, so the guy’s in the clear. That’s one thing James doesn’t have to worry about.

Now there’s the matter of getting out of this, which. Is going to prove incredibly difficult, but not impossible. James is still frowning down at the tiles when someone knocks on the door. “Hey man are you alright in there?” Sam asks. 

James stands up, grabbing the backpack and cringing at the flannel covered in blood. He opens the door to Sam’s concerned face and raises an eyebrow. “Fine, just making some calls. How’s Steve doing?” 

Sam takes a step back, eyes flickering over the sutures in James’ face before pressing his lips together. “He’s still in shock. I made him go lay down with the promise that you’d stay to talk to him in the morning.”

“You’re alright with that?” James asks, surprised. 

Sam shrugs. “Dude, you’re  _ Bucky.  _  Do you know how much I’ve heard about you? Steve needs you to at least talk to him. He’s...he’s been through a lot.”

James winces. “Uh, okay. Did he tell you about the memory thing?” he asks, and Sam nods. “Yeah. I don’t really remember him, which means that I’m not going to be able to live up to his expectations. He’s going to be disappointed and left worse off when I eventually disappear. Which will be soon,” James tells him. 

“You’re really gonna do that to him?” Sam asks, voice betraying his surprise. 

James looks at him, deadpan. “I don’t remember being in love with him. To me, I first saw him a couple of days ago. But yeah, I’m going to do that. I’ll be back before I disappear for good, though,” he says. 

“What? Where are you going?” Sam frowns as James steps around him. 

James grabs the file he’d given to Sam and tucks it back into the backpack. He pats down his legs, making sure the knives are still all in their holsters and that the small handgun is still in his boot. He checks the stolen gun is tucked securely into his waistband and deems himself set to go. “I’ve got to deal with this thing. It’ll take a few days, but I’ll drop by afterwards, if I’m still alive.”

Sam sputters and when James looks up he sees the look of shock on his face. “What thing?”

“Trust me, the less you know the better,” James snorts, already calculating the amount of favors he can call in. 

Sam shakes his head. “Look man, I’m not so sure -”

“Sam. Everything you’ve heard about me? I’m not that guy. I switch identities at least once a year and everyone that’s important to me is wanted in more than a few countries. I’m  _ not that guy,”  _ he stresses, thinking about how long it’s going to take to get to his apartment and the chances of him getting what he needs from there without dying. 

Sam scrapes a hand down his face. “I really think you should just...pause a moment. Steve’s not the same guy either, he’s just too modest to say anything about it.”

James frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“Steve’s not some helpless guy. He said you remember him being smaller, right? You saw how  _ big  _ he is now. How do you think he got like that?” Sam asks. 

James shrugs. “Magical puberty?” 

“Funny,” Sam rolls his eyes. “No, Steve found a hobby in different fight styles, found out he was scarily good at it and has been doing something with his skill ever since.”

James narrows his eyes. “So he’s not an artist?” He’s not entirely sure why he thought Steve would be an artist, but it fits, somehow. 

“On the side, yeah, but. You know the name Captain America?” Sam prompts. 

James can feels his mouth drop open. “You’re fucking kidding me,” he chokes out. 

Captain America, Brooklyn vigilante, saviour of the Brooklyn streets. Wears a cowl and is  _ insane  _ at hand-to-hand combat. Has brought in more street thieves, would-be-rapists and other criminals in the past six months than the damn cops. James had heard of him in passing ever since he started thinking about dropping the name Winter. The name Captain America had been passed around the type of people he worked for with respect for his style and an irritated tone at how good he was. 

And he was Steve Rogers. 

“No kidding here, man. But I’m just warning you that once Steve’s got his head on straight he’s going to help you whether you like it or not,” Sam shrugs. 

James grits his teeth and sighs. “Well I’ll just have to get it done before he wakes up, won’t I?” he says, heading for the door. 

“And if you don’t make it?” Sam challenges. 

For some reason, James finds that incredibly funny. Maybe it’s just how tired he is. A slow grin slides across his face and he turns it on Sam. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning, Sam. I’ll even make pancakes.”

He closes the door behind him and pulls his phone out to make a few calls. 


	10. Take That

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo so I'm just gonna warn ya that in this chapter Bucko and the others get involved in some hefty violence and if that's not ya thing tread carefully!!! Only the Epilogue to go after this. Translations in end notes. Also Happy Holidays!

There’s questions weighing heavy on his mind as he drives to his apartment. How the hell did Rumlow know the name Winter Soldier? How the hell is Pierce and his men messed up with Hydra? It’s something that James plans on finding out the answer to before the night is over. He’s already cleared his apartment and the surrounding area of Pierce’s men and thrown his tac gear on. He’s ghosting his was to Clint’s now to regroup before heading out to where he  _ knows  _ Pierce is. He’s also called in and let Tony know he might not make it into work tomorrow. 

By this point, Pierce has most likely called all of his people back to him to defend both him and his base. Pierce knows James is coming for him, because if left alive, James doesn’t just let you get away with trying to kill him. Plus, Pierce has been on James’ nerves for far too long. 

He climbs the stairs of Clint’s building with something  _ alive  _ in his steps in a way that he hasn’t felt in a long time. He steps over the broken door into Clint’s apartment, raising an eyebrow at the people gathered inside. Natalia is settled on the couch arm, Clint’s beside her. Matt Murdock is standing by the window, listening to Thor as the jovial gunsmith talks his ear off. Bruce, a surprisingly strong combatant is settled on the couch beside Clint, a cup of tea in his calloused hands. 

He’s used to these people, but he’s pleasantly surprised at the presence of Peter, Scott, Luke and Carol all standing around the room, geared up and ready to go. Natalia notices him first, but Scott’s the first to speak. “Holy  _ shit,  _ so this is the look we’re going for? All you need is warpaint man and you’re easily the scariest fucking guy I’ve ever met,” the guy says. Loudly.

James glares at him, making his way over to Natalia and Clint. “Everyone’s been briefed?” he asks them.

Natalia nods. “Everyone here has some problem or another with Pierce’s crew,” she says. 

“We’re all going to benefit them being gone,” Matt speaks up, looking over in their direction. 

James hums, hiking his rifle up further on his shoulder. “So we’re good to go, then?”

“Good as ever,” Clint assures him. 

James nods, ready to give directions to where they’re going when everyone’s attention shifts to the doorway. James has a gun pointed at the intruder’s head a split second later, finger only just hesitating on the trigger. “You’re joking me,” he sighs, lowering the gun.

Steve knocks on the doorframe, raising an eyebrow. Sam just shrugs from next to him, a what-can-you-do look on his face. “It’s not like you can’t use the help,” Sam points out. 

“Who’re they?” Peter asks. 

James sighs again, putting more  _ exasperated  _ into it. “Everyone, this is Steve and Sam, aka Captain America and…?” he trails off, looking at Sam.

Sam waves. “Falcon, I guess. I can fly,” he announces. 

James lets that slide, not asking about it. “Okay. Fine. You two can be briefed on the way there. It’s a half hour drive so we better get going, it’s best to get this over with before the sun comes up,” he says, looking over everyone. 

They’re all nodding. They head down to the cars, piling in. Steve and Sam end up in the same car as him, Clint and Natalia, much to James’ irritation. He deals with it, tuning out Natalia briefing the two and focuses instead on what’s going to happen once they get to Pierce’s safehouse.

All of Pierce’s men are thugs, mostly untrained in anything but a gun and intimidation. They have no chance, not against all of these people James considers friends. He wonders if he’ll get to Pierce first. He doesn’t mind, really, as long as the bastard dies. He’s been gaining too much power, so much that the rest of the underground is starting to get antsy, what with the way Pierce is starting to expand his business into other territories.

“We’re here,” he says, parking the car and popping the boot. 

They all pile out of the car, the other pulling up in the carpark too. James grabs his rifle, the rest of his weapons already clipped onto his tac gear. He looks over all of them, nodding once in a ‘good luck’ gesture before turning to go up the nearest tree and take out all the guards. He finds himself looking at Steve, who’s staring straight back at him. 

James clenches his jaw before tilting his head in a ‘come with me’ way and stalking off. He hauls himself up a tall, big-branched tree with his rifle on his back, Steve following him. They’re barely halfway up when Steve starts talking. “So Sam told you I’m Captain America,” he says. 

James doesn’t grace that with an answer, hauling himself up onto a branch and settling down, setting up his rifle. Steve sits on the branch next to him, simply watching. “Everything you’ve done...I don’t care, Bucky. It’s not your fault,” Steve speaks again, just as James is lining up the first shot. 

James feels amusement curl in his stomach as the first guy goes down. “Steve, killing people is literally my job,” he says, taking the next guy out. 

“You didn’t choose this life, though,” Steve insists. 

James takes down the next few people before speaking again. “I’m genuinely choosing to kill people right this very second,” he reminds him. 

He takes a moment to glance over at Steve, taking him in in the dim light. He seems scarily unfazed. “You’re only killing the bad guys,” Steve says. 

“The bad guys, right. You sound like a fucking comic book,” James snorts, shooting the next guard. People are starting to come out of the building now, looking like frazzled ants. “These people have families, lives. Just because they’re hired by Pierce doesn’t mean they’re bad people. Hell, I was hired by Pierce. I’m probably worse than all of them put together, what with the shit I’ve done, Hydra taken into account or not,” he continues, picking the people off. They’re starting to turn around and run inside now. They know who’s here. 

“What are you trying to do? Tell me you’re a bad person?” Steve questions, swinging his legs. 

James gives him an incredulous look. “I’m trying to make you realise that I’m a  _ horrible  _ person. Shit, the things I’ve done, you couldn’t even imagine them. I’m trying to get you to see that I’m not your  _ Bucky.  _ I’m James Barnes and I’m a damn mercenary, despite the fact I attempted to be a mechanic for a couple of days,” he says, packing his rifle up. 

“You’re so much like him,” Steve says, following him down the tree. 

“But I’m not him.”

“No, you’re not. I know that. But you’re still the guy I’m in love with,” Steve continues, dropping down to the ground and watching as James stashes his rifle in the boot of the car. 

He follows Bucky towards the house where everyone is already in position. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Steve,  _ eleven years.  _ And you’re still in love with Bucky?”

“Yeah,” Steve shrugs, pulling his cowl over his face and striding into the house alongside James. 

James feels something wild unfurling in his gut as Steve effortlessly takes down the first thug that comes at them using only his fists. James has noticed that Steve’s not carrying any weapons. Rolling his eyes, James moves upstairs, knowing that most of the others are clearing the basement and first floor. 

“And you know I’m not him?” James checks, tugging his knife back out of his opponent's thigh, watching Steve swing his body around and use the momentum to throw his own opponent downstairs. 

“It’s drilled into my brain at this point, thanks to you and Sam. Sam may have had a chat to me on the way to Clint’s,” Steve admits, following James to the top floor. 

James sighs, meeting Steve’s eyes meaningly at he shoots one of the particularly vicious thugs near point-blank. Steve flinches at the sound of the body hitting the ground, but he doesn’t do anything else other than narrow his eyes. James raises an eyebrow and ups his game, moving through the people coming at them with and effortlessness that feeds the ferocity pounding in his bloodstream. 

Steve...Steve matches him almost as easily, if not hindered only by the fact that he’s leaving everyone he touches alive. James sneers at him, kicking in Pierce’s office door, looking away from Steve as the man  _ winks  _ at him, knocking out the last thug and coming to stand behind him. The adrenalin from the fight is still flooding James’ system as he takes in the sight before him. 

Natalia has Pierce with his arms up, back to the window. Nick -  _ Nick Fury -  _ is standing beside her, a tired yet pleased look on his face. Clint is standing behind Rumlow and Rollins, both thugs tied to chairs. Rollins is out cold but Rumlow spits at James the moment he sees him. The guy’s face is a mess and James takes in Clint’s bloodied knuckles with an incredulous look. 

“Okay, this has just completely stumped me,” James admits. 

Natalia snickers, waving her gun at Pierce who sits down obediently, a scowl on his face. “You were set up by Pierce,  _ kotik.  _ Pierce is the head of a new American branch of Hydra and when he was given clearance to know about the Winter Soldier, well. He knew your face immediately. He needed a reason to bring you in and kill you for Karpov, who’s the dirty root of all of this, so he got you to kill Nick. It was plausible that he wanted no witnesses, only Nick’s a clever man and on top of being a lawyer, he’s also the head of Shield and I have your apartment bugged. I knew you were going to kill Nick, so I let him know and he played dead. He was wearing armor when you shot him,” Natalia explains, a smile on her face. 

James scrapes his hand down his face, reeling. “I’m even more stumped. I just want to kill Pierce. And probably Rumlow,” he says, looking at the men in question with a meaningful expression. 

“We need to take Pierce in for questioning, Mr Barnes,” Nick speaks up, raising an eyebrow. “He’s very deep in some shit and he’s sitting on valuable information that could crack open a case Shield has been working on for a very long time.”

James looks at him, frowning. “All I heard was that I can’t kill Pierce, to be honest,” he bites out.

“That’s correct, Mr Barnes.” Nick says. 

James purses his lips and looks at Pierce, who’s standing very still, probably planning something right now. James sighs. “There’s no way I can kill him?” he asks. 

“No,” Nick says, sounding irritated this time. 

“Bucky…” Steve cautions from beside him. 

James can hear the others coming up the stairs, knows his window is getting smaller. Shield - where the fuck do all these organisations keep coming from? - wants to take Pierce in. James  _ knows  _ Pierce has several aces up his sleeve. If he gets out of here alive, he’ll slip through Shield’s fingers like a damn eel. He’ll  _ get away,  _ and they’ll have to go through this all over again. 

Pierce is on the ground and James’ gun is smoking a second later, the shot ringing through the room. “He flinched!” James protests before people can start yelling at him. 

“Barnes!” Nick starts forwards, but James is already stalking over to Rumlow, a scowl on his face. 

For the first time, James sees real fear on the bastards face. “Four four seven three six nine eight two. That’ll get you into that vault over there, and in it you’ll find more than you would have ever gotten out of Pierce,” he says, tucking his gun away and coming to stand in front of Rumlow. 

Nick makes a disgruntled noise, but goes over to the vault, tapping in the numbers. Clint moves over to him and Natalia after leveling James with a cautioning yet impressed look. James can feel eyes on him, but his attention is on Rumlow. He smiles, shark-like, pulling a dream-memory from the darker vaults of his mind. Since moving to Brooklyn the disjointed memories have started making more sense. 

_ “Vstat' na koleni, Soldata, otkryt' etot krasivyy rot tvoyego,”  _ James purrs, echoing something that had haunted his mind for weeks after that particular dream. 

Rumlow goes deathly pale and he starts straining at the bonds with more effort now, a choked whine of fear crawling out of his throat. James kicks the chair he’s in over, feeling grim satisfaction at the crack of Rumlow’s had against the floor. Rumlow sputters, writhing against the rope around his wrists. 

“Bucky,” he hears Steve speak up, voice laced with concern and uncertainty.

James ignores him and moves over Rumlow, crouching beside him, still smiling. He spares a glance for Steve and the others gathered in the room. “Rumlow here was apart of the Winter Soldier project,” he announces. “He helped me be a  _ better little puppet,  _ didn’t you, Rumlow?” 

“Fuck you,  _ sobaka,”  _ Rumlow spits, fear dancing in his bloodshot eyes. 

James hovers over him, looming, dark.  _ “Razve vy ne znayete, chto slezy tol'ko poymite menya boleye vozbuzhdennym, domashneye zhivotnoye?”  _ he echoes, flashes of barely repressed nightmares coming to the forefront of his mind. He can almost  _ feel  _ the startled horror sluicing it’s way through the room.

A hand comes down on his shoulder a moment later, steadying him. Grounding him. He looks up at Natalia, who looks down at him with a soft expression. She kneels beside him, her hand cupping his cheek. “Let me,  _ kotik.  _ Revenge does not help, trust me. I know. Better to let someone else make him suffer for what he did to you,” she whispers, her words only for him. 

James stares at her incredulously. She just smiles sadly at him, tapping out a sentence in morse code on his cheek. He swallows dryly, glancing down at Rumlow, before tearing his gaze away and feeling pure darkness drop off his shoulders. He sucks in a shaky breath and stands up, stalking away, heading for the door. Most everyone has headed back to the cars now, but Sam and Steve are there, as well as Clint and Nick in the vault. 

James shoulders past Steve, his face carefully blank. He can hear the screaming start up before he makes it to the stairs. 

“Bucky?” Steve calls after him, footsteps hurrying his way. 

James picks his way down the stairs, over the bodies and the mess, past the death he’s created and outside. He pauses, looking across the large lawn at the horizon. The sun’s coming up. 

“Bucky?” Steve asks again, coming to stand beside him.

James watches at the sky begins to lighten, feeling oddly calm. “I think I’ve killed enough people,” he murmurs. 

A tentative arm comes around his shoulders, and James lets himself be pulled into a soft hug. He lets himself breathe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (some of these aren't very nice fyi) (I almost don't want to translate them but askjnsdivjk) (oh also Bucko was repeating shit said to him he wasn't meaning it for Rumlow)
> 
>  _Vstat' na koleni, Soldata, otkryt' etot krasivyy rot tvoyego;_ Kneel, Soldier, open that pretty mouth of yours.  
>  _Razve vy ne znayete, chto slezy tol'ko poymite menya boleye vozbuzhdennym, domashneye zhivotnoye?;_ Don't you know that the tears only get me more excited, pet?  
>  The morse that Natalia tapped into Bucky's cheek; It's time for you to rest.


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter! Sorry it took so long. But hey, look, it's finally done! Thank you so so much for sticking with me throughout and I wish you an awesome year. Hope you like the epilogue!
> 
> And hey, I was thinking. How would anyone feel about a sequel? I've grown kind of fond of James and Steve in this 'verse. I have ideas already but I wanted to know what everyone thought.

Natalia told him; ‘it’s time for you to rest’. The windows are open, cool breeze brushing the curtains back. The apartment is quiet except for the sounds of slow breathing; Steve’s laying on the couch. It’s been three weeks since James washed the blood of the fight from his hands and hung up his kevlar. Three weeks since all ties to his previous alias’ were cut and there was no one left inhabiting his body but James Barnes.

And Bucky. Bucky’s here too, but only for Steve. In the beginning, it startled James how quickly he and Steve became friends again, even with the knowledge of who they used to be hanging over them like snow on a tree branch. Now, they are careful. Still learning. Pushing. Pulling. Asking. Giving. 

Natalia has given her apartment to James, with the parting excuse that it was so he couldn’t get Clint’s trashed again. James, surprisingly enough, still has his mechanic job. Tony is apparently unfazed by the fact that he missed his third day at the job. It’s whatever - he doesn’t really need the money considering the amount he got paid for killing but also not killing Fury, but he actually likes working at the shop. For the first time in a while, he comes home from work covered in grease instead of blood. 

Steve comes over a lot. Sometimes they sit on the couch and watch movies, sometimes they talk about their days (on top of being Captain America, Steve’s also a freelance artist) and sometimes they talk about the past. When he’s in the right mood, James likes to ask questions about a past he doesn’t remember - where was I born? When did we meet? How did we meet? What was I like?

Bucky Beckham was an overprotective, far too loud, loyal friend with a light sense of humor. Nowadays, James is unstable, unpredictable, quiet and with the darkest sense of humor Sam’s said he’s heard in a long time. Sam Wilson, Steve’s best friend. He comes over and watches movies at James’, too, brings popcorn and a presence that calms the tension between James and Steve that they haven’t worked out yet. 

Sam, underneath the shield he likes to provide for Steve, is a real good guy. After a long talk with both James and Steve, Sam warms up to James and James is starting to consider the guy a friend. He’s always there for Steve in a way that James doesn’t think he’ll ever understand. 

Steve himself is an entirely different story. He seems to think it’s his purpose to weave himself back into James’ daily life - there during lunch at James’ work, hanging at his apartment on the weekends, joining him for a run in the mornings. James can’t find it in himself to say he doesn’t like it. Steve’s become a constant in James’ life that he genuinely enjoys. 

“You’re thinking too hard again,” comes from the couch. 

James looks up, knows his face is too blank to be considered normal, knows his entire body is full of tension that never really leaves. “Someone’s gotta do some of it around here,” he retorts. 

Steve snickers, looking up from the sketchpad on his knee. “You’re a dick,” he replies, all the heat from the remark completely nonexistent. 

“And you’re an asshole. Pay me rent,” James pulls up a now old arguement, getting up from the dining table and walking over to the coffee pot. 

Steve rolls his eyes - James isn’t looking, but he  _ knows -  _ and goes back to scratching his pencil along the paper. “You’re literally the worst model,” he says. 

“I think the real problem there is that you never let me know when I’m actually supposed to be modelling,” James tells him, raising an eyebrow from where he’s sipping at steaming coffee. 

Steve mutters something under his breath that James doesn’t bother lipreading, instead content to lean against the bench and turn his attention the cloud-filled sky outside the window. It’ll be nearing dark soon, and that means Steve will be gearing up and going out to prowl the streets of Brooklyn. 

In the past three weeks, James has considered countless times going with him.

His body misses the way it used to move - silent, agile, an unstoppable force. Something in him misses the way he could find a target in less than a week and take them down with minimal effort. He knows it’s not healthy, to love the kill, but god does he miss it. He wonders if turning that bloodlust into something good, like helping Steve protect the streets, would settle the need. 

But at the same time, his body loves the way he gets home from work and knows that he’s done something good. He’d fixed something. Sometimes created something, what with the way Tony ropes him into helping with all his crazy new inventions. It’s a new kind of satisfaction, something warm that curls up inside his chest and helps him sleep at night, helps him forget the things he’s done. 

He knows these kinds of things take time. 

“You’re doing it again.”

Steve’s gotten up from the couch, moved over to James to sneak around him and grab his own cup of coffee. “Where’re you going tonight?” James asks, dodging the statement successfully.

Steve rolls his eyes but lets it go. “Probably Bedford-Stuyvesant, Clint’s been reporting a lot of trouble down that way. Admittedly, it’s mostly near his building, but whatever,” Steve shrugs. 

James nods, eyes back on the windows. His skin prickles from where he can pick up the warmth of Steve. He’s so close. “Are you coming back here after?” he asks. 

“Well, I’ll need you to stitch me up if things go to hell, won’t I?” Steve laughs. 

James rolls his eyes, setting the mug down on the bench and turning to him. “Don’t wake me up before sunrise.”

“My word, Barnes,” Steve promises, a wide grin spreading over his face. 

James narrows his eyes. “I’ll hold you to that,” he states, before letting a smile slip through. He thinks he sees Steve’s eyes dart down to his lips for a split second. He knows he can hear Steve’s heartbeat kick up a notch. It’s whatever. 

That night, Steve slips out the windows, dressed head to toe in his night gear, leaving James settled on the couch watching reruns of the Great British Bake Off. James falls asleep in his bed around midnight and doesn’t wake up till the birds start singing. When he drags himself to the kitchen, Steve’s there on the couch, waiting to be stitched up, blood dribbling from a goddamn knife wound in his abdomen. 

James sighs and flicks the coffee pot on before digging the first aid kit out. 

  
He reckons he’ll just stay here a while, let things play out. If Steve needs him, he’ll pull the kevlar on again but for now, everything seems pretty damn fine. 

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr at; [buckyskillingme](http://buckyskillingme.tumblr.com) :))


End file.
